


Ghosts of the Mojave

by Trystero



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 2, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Assassination, Detective Noir, F/M, Gen, Good State Gone Bad, Intrigue, Legal Drama, Love at First Sight, Murder Mystery, Novel, Plot Twists, Revenge, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:18:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 59
Words: 106,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trystero/pseuds/Trystero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The Mojave may be conquered but its ghosts have come a-haunting.</i> </p><p>NCR City, 2283. The New California Republic is stronger than ever, their win in the Mojave one amongst many triumphs, but the war isn’t over yet. Someone is sabotaging the water and electricity supplylines, and no faction is claiming the acts as their own.</p><p>In the capital, defence lawyer Lori Treichler has the opposite problem. An ex-soldier insists that he’s guilty of murdering his old commander, and refuses any defence.</p><p>While Lori investigates, a notorious war criminal unexpectedly hands himself in, and Lori is assigned to his defence, lowering her already tenuous public image. But he doesn’t want her services either – at least, not her legal services.<br/> <br/><i>Ghosts of the Mojave</i> is set post-game, with <i>Eureka!</i> complete, and <i>I Forgot to Remember to Forget</i> incomplete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A new client

In the desert, east of NCR City, a large, round bump in the ground signifies the entrance to an old pre-war Vault. One side of the bump is cut away, and there stands a large, cog-shaped door, so massively thick it could, and once did, withstand nuclear assault. The door stands open. A man is dimly visible in the interior corridor, screwing the cover back onto a fuse box.

The man whistles as he works, just as though he really worked there, as though the calm way he turned the screwdriver was from satisfaction in good repair job well done, rather than rigging it to explode.

☣☣☣

Tricky

My name’s Lori Treichler, and I’m a lawyer for the New California Republic, based in NCR City, specialising in military courts-martial. I do a bit of private-client work here and there, but the army is my primary source of clientele. 

I’m never out of work. Because just like war, law never changes. Eras pass, societies’ values evolve - and occasionally devolve - but there remain certain constants that have existed since time immemorial. Murderers, thieves, blackmailers, batterers and rapists - these, plus every other sort of miscreant, are my clients.

I trained under an NCR prosecutor, and when I started work I did prosecutions, but that was like shooting rats in a barrel. These days I prefer the greater challenge of defending.

Why do I need more challenge? Let’s just say, work’s become pretty important to me lately. It keeps my mind off things. Certain personal matters, that even consideration of the ugliest of crimes is preferable to me than dwelling on.

I have a small office in the business district of NCR City, which is a metropolis in California, some way south of New Reno and east of San Francisco, that 100 years ago was a humble stand-alone settlement called Shady Sands and now is the heavily-militarised centre of an empire. Its symbol is a two-headed bear: one head is NCR City, the centre of governance, the other head is the NCR Army, which executes their orders. Together, they form what’s so far been a very successful machine for expansion. _“No one treads on the bear!”_ is our slogan. It’s true. No one can. We’re too good at flattening them first.

It’s an interesting job, and as military pay goes, decently rewarded, but don’t get ideas - there’s nothing grand about me or my existence. The only concession to grandeur in my office is a vast, ancient desk, made of some kind of heavy dark wood that no longer grows, with numerous lockable drawers down each side. I need it. My working life is all about handling a constant influx of paperwork, and never losing anything. One lost document or missed deadline and I can lose a case that I should have won. Given the severity of sentences meted out by our current crop of judges, I owe it to my clients to take the utmost care with their files.

The timeworn cliché about criminal defence lawyers is that we keep a bottle of cheap whisky in a desk drawer, and during tough cases, pull it out for a swig when clarity reveals what kind of deep shit we’re wading into and we need to blur the image a little. Traditionally, the bottle begins its career in the bottom drawer, its destiny gradual promotion to the top.

I’m not that far gone. Yet. I keep the whisky at home, and I only break it out on the odd occasion, when I need to calm my nerves and a hot bath isn’t going to do the trick. When I’ve waded into shit so deep I’ve lost my footing and I begin to hallucinate tentacled monsters lurking below.

By the end of the story I’m about to tell you, the bottle will be in the top drawer.

Rule number one for lawyers? You never, _never_ get personally involved with a client.

TUESDAY

1:36 p.m., Tuesday April 24th, 2283

I’m at my desk finishing off a notice of appeal in the case of three deserters who have been sentenced to hard labour for life, when there’s a soft knock on my door. I ignore it and keep thinking about what I’m writing.

The ‘for life’ aspect is excessive in my opinion, given that none of the three is aged over 17 years old. The NCR has lately been drastically over-reaching itself, so much so that they’ve started conscripting every able-bodied boy and girl in the region from age 15, for a minimum seven-year tour of duty ending maybe in Oregon, or Nevada, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah or Idaho.

The generals are desperate for more cannon fodder, and panicky about losing the unwieldy territories they’ve already annexed, so desertion is treated as the most serious of crimes. Deserters aged 20 or over usually get the firing squad, as a warning to others not to try. It’s pretty effective.

Often when you talk to army grunts, the ones who enlisted before conscription, half of them don’t know or care what or who in particular they’re fighting for. They joined up for the regular wage and three meals a day. For a lot of people in the Wasteland, that’s an irresistible lure. Not for your average teenager, though. All that most teenagers I know want to do is dance and look good and kiss each other. Instead they’re made to march around in drab uniforms getting shouted at and belittled on a daily basis, eventually marching over the horizon to shoot at strangers and get shot at in return. They come back with hard faces and sometimes missing body parts. The ones who come back at all.

So I sympathise with juvenile deserters. Some of them have very serious reasons for going awol, too. Not too long ago I represented a 15-year old conscript for desertion, whose reason for deserting, as he had explained to his superior officer when he arrived and again the next day before he left, was that he urgently needed to get home to protect his younger siblings from their father. He wasn’t lying. I managed to get hard labour for life down to four years, and arrange for his brother and sister to be taken out of their fathers’ house and placed in the care of an aunt. Not great, but the best I could do.

I’m nearly done with drafting the appeal when my assistant Tomasz Borowicz (pronounced like ‘vitch’), sick of waiting for me to respond, sticks his head around the door and speaks in his too-deep voice for his slight frame. His name is Polish but his ancestry is predominantly east African.

Tomasz is a good assistant, and I’m training him up as a lawyer. I want to know that someone competent will replace me, some day when I can’t take it anymore and quit.

“Lori, new client, murder of a commanding officer.” He vanishes. I continue writing without looking up. I never like being interrupted.

It’s hard to keep my concentration though; murder of a commanding officer is about the worst thing you can do in the eyes of NCR military judges, so this new case is going to be a biggie.

The notice finished, I pick it up along with a fresh pad of paper and walk out of my office. As I pass Tommy’s desk he hands me a thin manila folder, the initial prosecution information against my new client.

“I’ll be out the rest of the afternoon,” I gesture with the folder. “This guy’s service record, please.”  
Tommy nods and picks up the phone. NCR City has a small phone network, just around the business district, government buildings and military complex. It doesn’t go any further than that, not even to the other side of NCR City, but we’re pretty proud of it. It’s the only working telephone exchange in the western wasteland.

I head out into the dry afternoon air. There aren’t too many people out on the street in this part of town, it’s just offices and municipal buildings; no shops, eateries or homes. On the corner two young NCR cadets slouch against a lamp-post, machine guns slung casually over their shoulders. They look me up and down brazenly, but as I get close they see I’m easily a decade older than them and they look away, bored again. For kids their age, a decade might as well be 100 years.

Making a small detour via the court building, I drop the notice of appeal in at the reception desk. I continue down the street towards the military base.

At the gate I’m checked for my i.d., though of course they know me - I’m there several times a week.

“Lieutenant Treichler, going to the cells,” I say automatically, flashing my i.d. card.  
“Hey, Tricky,” the nearest guard replies, waving me in. I pass through and head across the yard towards the bunker where they house the prison cells. NCR-affiliated offenders are held here, but so are high-value prisoners of war on occasions, so security is habitually tight.

‘Lieutenant’ is just an honorary rank. You get assigned a rank if you work for the NCR military, even in a completely non-military capacity. I don’t carry a gun. I never even did basic training.

As for ‘Tricky’... that’s the local citizens’ nickname for me, due to my inherent suspiciousness as a defender of reprobates. They sometimes mutter that old cliché about “putting criminals back on the streets”. In reality I just make certain the person on trial is actually the person who committed the crime. Without defenders, the MPs could ‘solve’ all crimes simply by rounding up the usual suspects. In that scenario, no, the perpetrator does not go _back_ on the street; he never left it. He sits back and smiles smugly while some petty thief or drunkard goes down.

Of course, the majority of crimes really are committed by the usual suspects. But there’s a notable and persistent minority, maybe 25 or 30%, that are committed by people you would never guess had a dark side to them. Respectable married ladies siphoning money from their workplaces. Good-looking, amiable guys who go out and rape at night. Respectable family men killing their wives when the marriage founders.

I try to do my job and live my life as straight-up honestly as I can. I’m probably the least tricky person you ever met. So I guess the nickname bugs me a bit. But I don’t let them know that.

At the prison entrance I flash my i.d. again, tell them who I’m there to see, and am escorted down into a dimly-lit, unpainted concrete bunker. They seem to keep this place deliberately dark and claustrophobic. Good way to intimidate or demoralise the prisoners. It’s also about 10 degrees cooler than it is outside.

A guard escorts me to the ‘conference room’, a tiny room furnished only with a small square metal table with two metal stools on opposite sides of it, all heavily bolted to the floor. There can be no chair-throwing or table-flipping here.

The guard locks me in and goes off to collect my client. I lean against a wall and read the file Tomasz gave me. There isn’t much in it, just a sheet of paper with the charge and the relevant names, time and place. More will come later.

Still no sign of the guard, I plot out the phrasing of some of my arguments for the deserters’ appeal case. Sometimes a perfect turn of phrase can sway the argument my way. The trick, I’ve found, is to make the judges feel they _want_ to agree with me, rather than that they grudgingly have to. No one likes a smart-ass.

After a long wait I hear a jangling of keys, the door is unlocked and the guard shoves a man into the room, leaving and locking the door again behind him. They don’t worry about my safety, but it’s not usually a problem. Most of my clients become quite mild-mannered when alone with their lawyer in the conference room.

A tall, strongly-built, light-haired man with a tough jaw contrasting with soft, sad eyes slumps into the chair opposite me. He has severe bruising around his left cheek and temple. Clobbered while being subdued at the scene of the crime, perhaps? Or maybe beaten up in custody, for killing an officer.

He stares at the table and won’t meet my eye. I hold my hand out and introduce myself as his legal representative. His eyes slowly move to my hand, then back to the table.

Sometimes clients don’t trust me at first, because I’m paid by the NCR, so they think I’m a sort of double-agent.

I explain to him that my office is funded by the NCR High Command to perform the necessary duty of representing accused men at trial, but that the funding is not dependent on result, and that in legal terms I’m completely independent. I explain that my job is to defend him to the best of my ability, and that everything he tells me will remain permanently confidential.

No effect. Not a molecule of him moves, I can’t even see his chest rise and fall. He looks like a man who has given up on life, even lost the urge for oxygen.

I read the charge sheet out to him. That usually gets them talking, if only to curse.

“On Monday the 23rd of April 2283, at or around 6:30 a.m., at the Army Recruit Training Facility, you did murder your ex-commanding officer Major Brenda Margaret Gilles, by a shot to the heart.”  
I look up at him. His jaw is working, and he raises his eyes to meet mine. They are no longer soft or sad; now an empty fury is boiling there.

“Major,” he rasps scornfully, then clears his throat and turns to spit on the floor. I wait but he says nothing else, just stares me down. I ask him questions, where was he when this happened, why did they think he was the perpetrator; but I get no answers, just the angry stare.

I change tack and explain to him the process of what will happen next, ending with what possible sentences he might receive if the court finds him guilty.

The death penalty is a very strong possibility. I tell him so. That information almost always gets clients to start talking, but this man is stone. He says nothing, and eventually I lean back and fall silent too.

I gaze at him steadily, arranging my expression to convey a sense of calm and empathy. We stare at each other for a while. Eventually I break the silence. “You are in a very serious, very difficult, situation. You need to let me help you.”

“I don’t need shit,” he growls. His voice is deep and soft, and tinged with the same half-burned-out fury that shows in his eyes. “All I need is a bullet to the head.”  
“You feel suicidal?”  
He squints. “Fuck you.”  
“I can arrange to have the prison psychiatrist see you, she may be able to help.”  
It might help his case if I can show that he is mentally unbalanced.  
Abruptly he bellows in my face “I said fuck YOU! I don’t need your FUCKING HELP!”  
I’m momentarily stunned, but not afraid, because his hands are still, not fidgeting; I’m pretty good at predicting physical violence these days. He’s angry and very upset, but not dangerous to me... probably.

The guard unlocks the door and sticks his head in. “You ok in here?”  
“Yeah, we’re alright thanks,” I say calmly, nodding. The guard shrugs and leaves.

I want to give my strange new client another chance, to demonstrate that I’m on his side.  
“If we talk it through, I can at least tell you your options,” I say.  
He is calmer now, and speaks in a low voice. “I don’t want options. If you wanna help me, you can get me the death penalty sooner rather than later.”  
“You’re suggesting you want to plead guilty so you can be sentenced as soon as possible?”  
“Yes.”  
I chew my lip. I’ve had a few clients like this in the past, and they’re very hard to deal with. Without ethics it would be easy. I could just say sure, job done. It wouldn’t affect me professionally. Win or lose my cases, the payrate’s the same; and since these trials are held in secret, there’s no publicity to laud or damn me. But without ethics I wouldn’t be me.

Making my voice gentle, I tell him, “I understand you just want to have it all over and done with; but you must understand that I cannot in good conscience represent you as guilty when I don’t know enough about your case to have any idea whether you actually are guilty or not.”  
“I’m guilty,” he grunts, back to staring at the table.  
“If I knew the answers to all my questions, do you think I would conclude that for myself?”  
“Yeah.” He doesn’t meet my eye.  
“How about we make a compromise, then. I will consider representing you as guilty if you humour me and answer all my questions.”

This is a risky strategy and usually unwise. I only use it as a last resort. If he tells me everything and I decide he is not guilty, I won’t be able to let him plead guilty. Then he’d be pissed off and I would lose his trust – what little of it I might have gained.

He stares at me and the eyes are sad again. I wonder what has happened to him, that would give such a young man such old eyes.  
“Do we have a deal?” I ask brightly. _Say yes. You need help. Talk to me._  
Instead of answering, he gets up and moves to the metal door, banging hard on it.  
“I’m done in here,” he says when the guard’s face appears at the small window.

And that’s that. On my way out, I stop at the custody sergeant’s desk, tick the “Suicide Risk” box on my client’s detainment sheet, and put in a request for the prison psych to see him as soon as possible. There’s nothing else I can do right now. They will confiscate his belt and bootlaces, and check in on him every half hour, but resourceful prisoners can always find a way to leave their torment behind.

I go home early, thinking hard about Craig Joseph Boone, 27 years old, strong and healthy, and wishing only for death.


	2. The infirmary

My apartment is on the top floor of a newish residential block that is one of the tallest buildings in NCR City. There are no space constraints around the city, so there are no very high buildings – my “tall” block has only five floors. Still, I have a balcony around the back which gives me a view out over the army training yard and beyond that to the horizon. I sit out there in the mornings for my breakfast, and again in the evenings to eat dinner and read the _Bugle_. I read till the light dies, then I usually just look at the stars for a while, before eventually going to bed. It’s lonely, but it’s peaceful.

Stepping inside my apartment, I drop my satchel and keys on a side table and slip my shoes off. I go to the bathroom and take a quick shower. It’s amazing how the dust clings to your skin and gets in your hair, and it’s still slightly radioactive. The water runs a pale reddish colour for the first few seconds. I rinse my hair. I stopped using shampoo years ago – there’s no point, the only type available is just a harsh detergent, the same stuff we wash our dishes with except with a different colour added. It makes my hair grippy and tangled to the point of being virtually unbrushable.

Towelling off, I put on a slip dress and go over to my favourite possession, a gramophone that weighs about a quarter of a ton and was a nightmare to get up here, but it plays 33s as well as 78s, is in near-perfect working condition and I love it more than anything.

This is my evening ritual. I sit by my records, collected since I was a kid, and browse through them, thinking about which best suits my mood that evening. Record collecting is a hobby both easy and difficult – there is barely any competition as almost no one has a working gramophone, but records themselves, being ancient and terribly fragile, are very rare. I have several caravan masters on commission keeping their eyes out for me, and they bring me what few they come across.

I pick out a Gene Krupa 78rpm and gently drop the needle down to it. As the melancholy opening notes of “Skylark” flow over me, my heartbeat slows and I sigh deeply. The song is ancient, 340-odd years old, but I can relate to the yearning lyrics.

I head to my kitchen and make a simple early dinner. With a plateful of cheese, preserved meat and brown bread in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, and the _Bugle_ tucked under my arm, I slide the glass door open with my foot and go out onto the balcony. It’s never locked, since I’m five floors up and visible from the army base which lights up like a fairground at night. It would take a cat burglar with nerves of steel to get up here – and then they wouldn’t find anything worth stealing anyway.

The _NCR City Bugle_ is our local newspaper. It employs an editor and two journalists. A large proportion of it is devoted to military goings-on, there’s a regular and fairly tedious column about city council discussions and decisions, and in the back there’s my favourite section, a cheeky column of society gossip called “Social Diary, by Lady Penelope Polecat”. It used to be staid, “X party was attended by Y person” etc, but in the last year or so it’s gotten really good. Lady Penelope now hints at the most outrageous liaisons, and last year she published something so salacious about someone so influential that her column disappeared from the paper for a while, before reappearing as though nothing had happened. I still have my copy of that issue, so I can give you it word for word.  
_Who’s the mystery lady seen stepping out with General Oliver? A little birdie tells me she’s not his niece. One can’t help but wonder what Mrs Oliver makes of it, or perhaps she’s so well-occupied helping train a certain medical officer in refining his bedside manner that she hasn’t noticed?!_  
Every time I remember that one, I let out a cackle of glee. Well-occupied, ha ha! Ah, Penelope. Whoever you are, I admire your gall.

Tonight’s front page headline is “ _HOOVER VIRUS – SABOTAGE SUSPECTED_ ”. I skim the article, only half-interested. Apparently a serious computer malfunction at the Hoover Dam operating centre just under a week ago has been discovered to be a computer virus that could only have been deliberately introduced. It’s still not running normally and remains under manual controls until they can completely clean the system. The perpetrator is unknown and all staff are being checked. All security clearances are part-suspended until the saboteur is identified and no one working there is allowed to be unsupervised at any time. In the meantime, the dam is only putting out 55% as much power as usual and we should expect continued brownouts.

It’s followed by an article entitled “Malfunction at HELIOS One – Could It Be the Same Virus?”  
I’ve never heard of Helios One. Reading the article, it says that a solar power plant in the Mojave Desert has been having intermittent faults, as yet unexplained.

I make a mental note to pick up more candles tomorrow.

Turning to the inside back page I start reading Penelope Polecat’s column.  
_“The busy bees are abuzz as to the reason for the amazing demise of Major-Captain-Major-again Brenda Gilles on Monday morning. It seems she was zapped by a bolt from the blue! Who could she have rubbed quite that far the wrong way? All indications suggest that the contenders include almost everyone who has ever served under her, or their friends or relations; or even those whose loved ones had merely been in range.”_

Huh. What does all that mean? What’s the dig about Gilles’ rank? My memory suddenly flashes back to my meeting with Boone. He had bristled when I called her Major Gilles, repeated it in a tone of derision. He’d spat on the ground as though in disgust. There must be something to know about that. Maybe she got a promotion someone else deserved, and that someone is pissed off? Penelope herself certainly doesn’t seem to think Gilles’ death a tragedy.  
“Zapped”... a hint that the murder weapon was an energy weapon?

I gaze sightlessly at the paper, wondering – not for the first time – who Penelope Polecat really is. Is she one of their regular journalists under a nom-de-plume? Or is she an anonymous contributor, someone who must have access to some high-flying social circles - possibly someone I’ve met? I sip my drink without tasting it, deep in thought.

The lights flicker and go out, all over the city. After half a minute, emergency generators kick in and a few lights reappear at the military base. The lights in my building stay off. I take this as a hint and go to bed.

☣ ☣ ☣

7:53 a.m., Wednesday April 25th, 2283

The following morning dawns heavily overcast and smelling of imminent rain. I put on a suit, grab an ancient umbrella along with my satchel and head straight for the prison. Overnight I thought up several strategies to get my new client to talk to me, and I’m keen to try them out. I also want to check that the prison psych has seen him, and to find out what her assessment is.

I like rain, or at least its aftermath. Sometimes little flowers grow in the scrub afterwards, suggesting that there’s beauty in the radioactive wasteland yet. Plus I get to swing my umbrella as I walk, like an old-fashioned walking stick. It makes me feel jaunty. 

At the prison bunker, they give me funny looks when I ask to visit my client.  
“He’s in the infirmary,” one of the guards says. “I can take you over, but last I saw him he was unconscious, so I don’t know if they’ll let you see him.”

“What happened?” I ask as we head over to the medical wing, a large white building where they treat both prisoners and NCR military personnel. The prisoners have a separate area on the second floor with special guards.

I already know the answer but I’m hoping I’m wrong, just knocked out in a fight with a guard maybe, or slipped over and concussed himself.  
“Tried to off himself, early hours of this morning.” The guard chews a wad of gum, wholly unconcerned.  
“Did Arnette assess him before that?” Arnette Lang is the psychiatrist.  
“Yeah, said he was fine, so we cancelled the suicide watch and gave him his stuff back.”  
Goddamnit.

At the infirmary the usual i.d. checks are made, then I climb the stairs to the second floor and show my i.d. again to the matron, who says I can see him for as long as I want, but that I probably won’t get much out of him. That doesn’t bode well, and I mentally steel myself.

Behind a flimsy curtain that has long lost any definable colour, Craig Boone is lying on his back on a camp stretcher, his nose and mouth covered by an oxygen mask with a valve attached to a narrow pipe coming out of a wall fitting. His eyes are shut. A dark reddish-purple ligature-bruise curls viciously around his throat.  
He’s manacled to iron D-rings cemented into the floor. Apart from the oxygen mask, handcuffs and leg irons, he wears only a sweat-stained cotton vest and shorts. It feels undignified and unfair to expect him to deal with me while chained to the floor in his boxers, and I glance around for something to cover him up a bit more with, a sheet or a towel, but there is nothing. I momentarily consider asking the nurse for a sheet, but change my mind. I might need other favours from the nurse; I don’t want to use them up unnecessarily. 

There’s no chair so I sit on the floor next to him, never mind the suit, and listen to his rough breathing while I think. His hand is near mine. I take it, holding it lightly. It’s cool to the touch. His thumb and forefinger are discoloured by longtime tobacco use.

Prisoners in the regular jail aren’t allowed social visitors, but in the infirmary they are. The thing is, you don’t get into the infirmary unless you are half dead. It’s not unheard of for men to severely injure themselves just to see their wives or children.

“Craig,” I say softly. I squeeze his fingers a little. “Craig.”  
His eyes open, unfocused, and he looks into space, his expression becoming one of disappointment. Still here. Looking at that expression, I suddenly feel wretchedly sad. I swallow, trying to remain professional and unaffected.  
“Craig, it’s me, Lori, your lawyer,” I say, dispensing with formalities. He looks at me, but I’m not sure he recognises me. “Do you have any family members I could send a messenger to, to come visit you?” I ask.  
He stares for a moment then his face cracks, and my breath catches in my throat as I watch a big, round tear well out of his eye and roll down the bruised cheek to pool in his ear.

His hand jerks up instinctively to wipe the tear away but only makes it a few inches before the chain snaps taut and stops him. He keeps pulling, his bicep straining as he tries to break iron and concrete, to wipe away a tear.

There’s something appallingly pitiful about it. Turning my gaze away, I busy myself in my satchel looking for a clean handkerchief. There’s only one, gaily embroidered with pink and yellow flowers. Not very manly but it’ll have to do. I gently dry his face and dab at his ear. His eyes are clenched shut. He’s in his own private hell.

I’m not sure what’s best to do. All my ideas to get him talking are now out of the question, but I don’t want to leave him like this. I decide to wait, and see if he might tell me who he wants to have come visit him. He must have someone. Mentioning family didn’t go down too well, but an old friend, at least; everyone has a friend somewhere. While I wait, I take his hand again, in both of mine, and eventually he relaxes the arm. The metal cuff has cut into the flesh of his wrist where he jerked it and now it is bleeding a little. I apply pressure through the handkerchief till it stops.

His eyes stay shut, and I take the opportunity to survey him, looking for physical clues to his mental condition. He is heavily muscled but his face and waistline are sunken, as though he has lost a lot of weight recently. His face, neck and arms outside the tanline of a t-shirt are very sun-damaged. His feet have broken blisters and places rubbed raw on them, just beginning to heal, suggesting he has recently walked a long way.

“Craig, did you travel here from somewhere else?” I ask. He was listed as “no fixed abode” on his charge sheet.

He makes no reply. I wonder if he traveled to NCR City from far off just to make the hit on Major Gilles. A paid hit? Or some bad blood between them? If he did it at all; I still have no information on the circumstances of the killing, or how he came to be arrested.

After a while I admit to myself that he is not going to speak. I decide to speak for both of us.  
“Craig, I know things are all going wrong for you right now, but I’m here for you. I’ll help you in any way I can. If there’s anyone you want me to contact, just let me know. In the meantime, I’m your friend. You can rely on me, I promise.”  
I put the handkerchief into his hand as a talisman, closing his fingers over it, and say farewell. As I take my leave I see his fingers slowly feeling the embroidered flowers.


	3. Psych assess

Outside, the skies have broken and a heavy downpour is battering the ground, making a white noise that drowns out any other sound. I unfurl my umbrella and scurry over to the admin building, where Arnette Lang has her office. Fine, my foot. She’s not the wasteland’s greatest doctor, but she’s not usually that far off target. Craig Boone doesn’t strike me as the wasteland’s greatest actor, either. He cannot have seemed fine. I want an explanation.

Arnette is a short, skinny woman with a mass of frizzy brown hair she habitually ties in a massive pouf on top of her head. Her glasses magnify her eyes. She always seems way crazier than any of her patients.  
“Hello Lori, how absolutely lovely to see you!” she gushes nervously. She knows why I’m here.  
“Hello, Arnette. Craig Joseph Boone. You know he’s in the infirmary?”  
“Yes, I heard. I’ll go see him again tomorrow. I have a lot of patients to see this afternoon.”  
“Uh huh. You also know I had him put on suicide watch, but after your assessment they took him off?”

She has the decency to look shamefaced. “Yes. I’m sorry about that.”  
“May I have a copy of your assessment, please?” I’m asking politely, but she can’t say no. I have the right to a copy of every psych assessment done on my clients.  
“Yes, I haven’t made the file yet, one moment.” She fusses around, printing out two copies, putting one in a folder for her own records and handing the other to me. I lean against her door, stopping her from escaping, and skim-read it.  
She starts talking while I read but I hold one finger up to shush her. I hate being interrupted.

It’s all written in medicalese, but the gist of it is that Craig Boone presented as normal, somewhat depressed but not enough to be concerned by. No more distressed than a man in his doomed position would be expected to be, and thus not requiring her further services, she had concluded.  
Slack.

“So what you’re saying here is that a man likely to soon be on death row _should_ be very distressed, and therefore if he is, then that’s all fine?” I query her, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.  
“Yes, well, not exactly Lori, but I’m really very extremely busy you know, and if a man who’s done something that’s going to get himself executed happens to be depressed about it, that’s not really a priority for my time, is it?” Arnette blusters.

I walk out. It’s not the time for pointless arguments about spilt milk now, but I make a mental note to see if I can set things in motion to get her fired, or at least reassigned to another hospital, soon. I don’t want any more of my clients getting such useless non-treatment by a supposed professional. Too busy? Bullshit. There were lipstickey teacups and non-work-related books and magazines all over her office. She’s been in the job too long, she’s case-hardened. Meaning, she’s seen so many Xs that when a Y comes along she writes it off as an X without even looking.

I guess I’m pretty case-hardened too after quite a few years in this business, but I haven’t completely lost all feeling.

Out in the rain I stop and take a deep breath, inhaling rain-freshened air, scented with ozone and muddy water. This isn’t personal, I remind myself. You’re usually good at not getting emotionally involved. Keep it that way.

It’s only 10:22 a.m, and I have things to do, but I feel like going home, running myself a bath, and blanking out for a while.

Resisting the urge, I trudge through the rain to my office.


	4. Marlene

Tomasz hands me a bundle of documents as I pass his desk. A green military service file, and a large fawn-coloured envelope with more prosecution evidence in it.

At my desk, I get out a new blue folder, and write “BOONE, CRAIG J – MURDER COMM. OFF.” and yesterday’s date on the front and again along the side.

Into that I put the charge sheet and the psych assessment. I write a quick note to myself about what happened at the prison yesterday and the infirmary today and put that in too. Then I start to peruse the new information Tommy has obtained for me.

Craig Boone’s service record is almost exemplary. He enlisted voluntarily at age 17, here in NCR City, starting as a regular infantryman, progressing to sniper training and ending up in the top sniper unit, First Recon. Even I know there’s stiff competition to get into that unit, so he must have been damned good. He fought in various states. He was involved in the routing of the slave army “Caesar’s Legion” in Boulder City, Nevada, for which he was awarded a Distinguished Marksmanship Commendation Medal. After that time, for about a 5-month period, still in Nevada, Major Gilles was his commanding officer. There is no information about any disputes or personal problems between them.

He had no notable illnesses or injuries during his service, and his mental state is shortly described as “competent”. He is recorded as committing no significant offences. There was a single instance of drunkenness, near the end of his army career, in New Vegas. No punishment was deemed necessary. At age 25 he got married, also in New Vegas, to a non-NCR-affiliated woman named Carla Angélica da Conceição da Silva, no address given, and shortly after that he retired from service with full honours. There is no information on what he did after demobbing. 

There’s a home address from when he enlisted. 22 Westin Road, NCR City. Next-of-kin are recorded as Lee Jr. and Marlene Boone, at the same address; presumably his parents. His army pension in the event of his death is directed to go to them. Not the wife. Hmm.

Given that Craig Boone is only 27, his parents may well still be alive. I copy out the address and the names and put the note into my satchel, then put the service record into the blue folder.

The remaining material is prosecution evidence. I open the envelope and pull out a small stack of papers.

The first sheet is a printout of Craig Joseph Boone’s NCR City criminal record. It’s short: one petty vandalism conviction dating from when he was 14. Nothing more. The same family address is listed. Into the blue folder.

Next, crime scene and injury photographs. Ugh. I never like looking at these, not being naturally voyeuristic, but occasionally they can reveal some important clue, so I swallow my distaste and make myself study them. Paper-clipped together are a couple of photos taken from different angles of the Major’s body as it lay in the yard, along with a close-up photo of her torso, on a doctor’s bloodstained metal table, showing the entry wound. Right over the heart.

I think about that for a moment. NCR snipers are trained to usually aim for the head, unless it’s at very long distance. Could it be significant that he went for Gilles’ heart instead? Perhaps a spurned lover?

That leads me to wonder about the wife, the exquisitely-named Carla Angélica da Conceição da Silva. I suspect she must either have left him or be dead. Either way, not on the scene anymore. A man doesn’t sink into Craig Boone’s condition when he has a loving wife at his side.

I want to ask him about that; and about his relationship, whatever it was, with Gilles. I can’t help imagining possible scenarios, though it’s too early to form a hypothesis. I picture an unhappy love triangle, with Gilles engineering the death of Boone’s wife after all other efforts to get him to leave her fail. He finds out and shoots Gilles in revenge.

Nah, unlikely. I was never formally introduced to Gilles but I saw her a few times at army social events, and she’s been stationed in NCR City for at least a year now, whereas Boone came here in the last few days, from somewhere far away. If this was a grudge, it was long held.

Pulling my attention back to the evidence, I put the photos aside and look at the next document, a ballistics report. It states that the weapon used was probably a plasma pistol. Well well. The bolt had seared through her chest and melted everything inside her ribcage. The estimated distance of the shooter, noted as a very rough estimate, was 40-80 yards. Short enough that a trained shooter could easily have gone for the head. More easily than the heart, in fact. She had been out in the yard, walking at a normal pace, and not wearing a helmet, so there was no obstruction. Perhaps the shooter had meant to wing her, not actually kill her? A cadet she was bullying, perhaps? Officers in charge of training cadets here do tend to have domineering personalities. They’re chosen for it.

I put the photos and the ballistics report into the blue folder, making a mental note to go down to the crime scene later this afternoon and pace out the 40-80 yards, see where it puts me.

The next document is a mini-autopsy report. They don’t tend to run too many tests when the cause of death is as obvious as a plasma-melted heart. They did make some checks to be sure that she wasn’t already dead when shot, though the trajectory of the beam seems to confirm that anyway.

She was 38 years old, fit and healthy. Divorced, no children. She had a residual blood alcohol content suggesting she had been drinking the night before, but not too much. She arrived on the pathologist’s table dressed in uniform, nothing in her pockets. Traces of semen around her cervix, unknown depositor. No scratches or bruises. No grazes on her knuckles, nor anything interesting under her fingernails. Apart from the plasma hole, which entered her left breast comparatively modestly but went on to burn right through her back, no other injuries were recorded.  
I tuck the autopsy report into the blue folder.

The next few papers are witness statements. I flick through to see who their witnesses are. Two cadets, who were walking through the yard at the time of the shooting; the Military Police officers who arrested Boone; and the final one is from the doctor who examined the body immediately after the shooting.

The cadets say they were walking towards their barracks, having just come from the mess hall, when Major Gilles exited the admin building where her office was, some 65 yards in front and to the left of them, and started to walk in the direction of the mess hall. They both describe hearing a single sound, _“pishew”_ one of them described it, and then saw Gilles fall backwards to the ground leaving a small mist of blood and steam.

One ran up to her and attempted to administer CPR, pressing his hand over the small wound in her chest, unaware of the severity of the damage behind it. The other ran into the admin building calling for help.

Neither saw anyone they thought might have been the shooter. There were one or two other people around, but no one unusual that they noticed. It had all happened very fast. The sound of the shot had reflected off the buildings around the yard and neither cadet was certain from which direction the sound had initially come.

That detail doesn’t matter much, the trajectory of the bolt will tell me the shooter’s approximate location. I have the photos of the crime scene but they can be misleading on angles and distances sometimes, so I like to check it in person.  
I hope the maintenance people haven’t scrapped the door or scrubbed the bloodstain completely off the paving yet.

In NCR City there are no forensic crime scene investigators. That’s a thing of the long-distant past, there’s no funding for that form of applied science anymore. If I want further forensic investigations made, I’m it.

The next witnesses are the two Military Police officers who arrested Craig Boone. They found him “skulking” outside the complex, beyond the chainlink fence. That’s the edge of town and there’s nothing there but dirt, weeds, rocks and broken glass so old it resembles dimly translucent pebbles. According to them, when questioned he initially said he had been asleep and couldn’t explain what he was doing there. He was carrying a hunting rifle fitted with a high-powered scope, and in the magazine they found two .308 rounds. In his trouser pockets they found more .308 ammunition, a pair of boltcutters, half a packet of chewing tobacco, three caps, a straight razor, and a handwritten note in a disintegrating envelope.

No plasma weapon was found, but right next to where they found Craig Boone, at about his crouching eye-height, the fence had a fresh twenty-inch cut in it.

There are two photographs paper-clipped to the back of the MP statements. The first shows a very weathered-looking hunting rifle with a wooden stock, cracked in several places and repaired with wire and duct-tape. In contrast, the scope on it is modern and looks military-grade. The gun is lying on a white surface next to the bolt cutters and an unfolded straight razor, slightly rust-stained but otherwise clean.

Strange. Where is the murder weapon?

The second photo is a close-up of the note. The handwriting is slightly unevenly sloped but painstakingly tidy, giving me the impression that this message was written with great care by someone who didn’t write often.

_ “Carla, if you’re reading this, then you know. Sorry. Wanted to make it back home to you. The pension won’t be much but it should help you and the baby get by. Want you to remarry when you meet the right person. Don’t want you to have to be on your own. Not sure the right way to say how I feel about you. Think you know already, though. Always seemed like you knew what I meant, maybe better than I did. Wish I was there with you now. _

_ There are things I couldn’t tell you. Tried. Whatever you learn over time about my service in the NCR, hope you can forgive me. _

_ Lastly, know you were against it, but if it’s a girl, want her to be named after her mother. Know it’s playing dirty to win the argument this way, but too bad. It’s worth it. Craig.” _

The note interests me. It reads a bit like a suicide note, except for “wanted to make it back home to you”. Maybe it’s one of those notes that all NCR personnel in active service are required to write and carry on their person, in case of death on the battlefield - but if that were the case, why is he still carrying his around, more than two years after he demobbed? The wording is curious too. What are the things he tried to tell her but couldn’t? Things hard to forgive, that occurred during and in relation to his military service. Nothing was mentioned in his service record, suggesting it was either something authorised, or something highly classified.

I’d like to talk to this Carla da Silva, if she’s still around. And I need to talk to Craig Boone again. I know he won’t be happy about that.

I tuck the witness statements and the attached photos into my satchel, and head out of the office.

It’s now just short of 11 a.m. The rain has stopped for the moment and left behind it a heavy humidity. I head back to the military complex, i.d. myself as usual and go through into the yard where the shooting happened. It’s easy to see where the Major dropped – there is a hapless cadet there on his hands and knees, scrubbing at the last traces of the bloodstain. The door still has the burn mark on it.

Going up to the cadet I ask him if he saw the body before it was removed. He says yes, everyone did. It had lain there for over 20 minutes before being moved and in that time darn near everyone came to take a look. I ask him if Major Gilles had been his drill instructor. He says yes. Did you like her, I ask. This time he hesitates for a microsecond before saying yes.

“Really? I heard she was a total bitch,” I say conversationally, making it up, just to see what his response will be.  
Nervous laughter. “Yeah, she was kinda,” he says. “Not all the time, but she was such a stickler for the rules, it was like, maximum penalty for everything, no second chances, no exceptions, no matter how good your excuse was. You could be dying and she’d still give you a month’s toilet cleaning duties for being two seconds late to parade.”

I introduce myself as an investigator and ask him to demonstrate the way the body was lying. He doesn’t mind, even though the concrete is wet, because his grunt fatigues are already soaked from the rain. He lies down, frowns, gets up and lies down again in a slightly different position, trying to remember it right.  
“Something like this,” he says.  
I go over to the door and bend to put myself eye-level with the burn mark. I try to line up where the Major’s heart would have been, approximately, if she was standing where the cadet’s feet now are. Not exactly high science but it’ll have to do. My line of sight goes between two buildings on the far side of the yard, one the infirmary, the other the mess hall, and through to the chainlink fence. Right about where the MPs said they found my client.

I walk from the doorway she exited to the point where I become in sight of the fence, then time how long it takes till I am out of sight from the fence. About eight or nine seconds. Not much time to identify a target, line it up and shoot, but then Craig Boone was a professional. I start thinking again about possible motives, though it’s still too early for that. A paid hit, that he now deeply regretted? Or maybe something to do with the ‘things’ he couldn’t tell his wife? I need to find out what those things were.  
Looking again at the fence from where the bloodstain is, it occurs to me that the angle isn’t quite right. She should not have been shot face-on, but at more of a three-quarters profile. Did he call to her, or whistle, so that she turned, presenting him with a clearer target?

I thank the cadet, and walk across the yard and between the buildings to the fence at the edge of the compound, keeping my pace measured. I’d estimate the distance at about 100 yards. Close enough to the rough estimate suggested in the ballistics report. The ground is concreted up to the fence and kept cleanish. There are shallow puddles and a few small bits of debris, but nothing of interest. I don’t know what I was expecting. A discarded folder of match stubs with a girl’s name scrawled in it perhaps. Ha.

Heading out of the complex, I make my way around to the same spot on the other side of the fence. One thing I notice is that the chainlink fence turns a slight corner between this spot and the guard house at the entrance to the complex. Just enough that standing here, the entry guards would have trouble seeing me clearly because the fence becomes two thicknesses. Not an impossible spot for a sniper. Not good either, though. Very exposed. Whoever did this had to be fast and audacious. Someone who didn’t care if he got caught once he’d done it would fit the bill.

So far, it’s not looking good for Craig Boone. The central question remains, however – where’s the murder weapon? If he went away to hide it, why come back to this spot? If he wanted to be caught, why hide the weapon?

It starts to spit again so I get out my prehistoric umbrella and start walking back towards town, pondering these questions. The next item on my agenda is to visit Mr and Mrs Boone, if they are still in Westin Road. On the way there I stop at a shop and buy a box of small cakes as a gesture of apology. If Boone’s parents haven’t heard the news yet, I’ll have to break it to them.

Westin Road is so-named after a huge ranch on it, owned by the Westin family. Between the ranch and town there is a strip of housing, with maybe a dozen houses on each side. Nice real estate, as far as NCR City goes. The people who live there are a mixture of the _nouveaux riche_ and a few old families who’ve been there since the Shady Sands days, back when it was cheap.

Number 22 is a well-kept, modest house that has not been added to or modified in any way since it was built, and consequently looks much smaller and older than most of its neighbours. I knock on the door and after a short time an elderly woman appears and peers through the mesh screen.  
“Yes, dear?” she enquires.  
I give my name, and ask her, “Do Lee Jr or Marlene Boone still live here?”  
“I’m Marlene Boone.”  
My poker face stays on but I’m surprised – this woman looks much too old. “I’m looking for Craig Boone’s mother?” I clarify.  
“I’m Craig’s mother. What’s this about?” she asks, and now she looks worried.  
“Mrs Boone, I’m Craig’s legal advocate. I’m afraid he is in some trouble. May I come in and discuss it with you?”  
Mentioning legal trouble on the doorstep usually gets me in the door fast; no one wants neighbours to start twitching their curtains.  
She invites me in, and takes me through to the kitchen. Inside, the house is just like the outside; tidy and old-fashioned, except for one odd note – religious paraphernalia everywhere. It seems Mrs Boone is an ardent Hubologist.

I give her the box of cakes and we sit at the kitchen table. When I ask if Mr Boone will be home soon, she tells me that he died nearly a decade ago, and that she hadn’t had the heart to get rid of his things. I eat a little cake, slowly, just to make a polite gap between that sad subject and the next.

“What’s this about Craig? Where is he?” she prompts. I explain that Craig has been arrested, and what he is accused of. Marlene Boone sits as still as a rock, but her neutral expression becomes more and more forced. I tell her that he’s being held at the prison facility in the military complex. I don’t mention his stint in the infirmary.  
The old lady nods but doesn’t say anything.  
“Mrs Boone, when was the last time you saw Craig?” I ask her.  
“On Sunday.” Her voice is little more than a whisper.  
“Did he seem normal to you then? Or was something wrong?”  
She looks away and chews on her lip, then catches herself and looks at me. “Craig is a good man, he was well brought up, he served with the army for years and he got medals.”  
I say gently, “I know, Mrs Boone. I’ll do my best to protect him. But it would be useful to me to know where he was in the 24-hours leading up to the event, and why he was where the MPs found him. If you know anything.”

Marlene Boone takes a deep breath. “He arrived here on Saturday morning, he’d come all the way from New Vegas and was exhausted, poor boy. I hadn’t seen him since he went away with the army, and I didn’t know he was coming, so I was just so surprised. He went into town to do some errands, then he came back here for the night. He was asleep by four in the afternoon. After lunch the next day, Sunday, he left to go into the city to see someone he knows. I didn’t see him again after that.”  
“Did he say who the someone was?”  
“No. A doctor, he said.”  
“What kind of doctor?”  
“He didn’t say.”  
“Male, female? Did he say anything else that would narrow it down? I’d like to talk to this person.”  
“No... I don’t think so.”  
“Did he say when he’d be back?”  
“No. He just said not to wait up or to make any dinner for him, so I guess he expected to be late.”  
“Did he leave any of his things here? Did you get the impression he was intending to come back?”  
“He didn’t give any particular impression, but that’s just him, he never did communicate much. He’s just like his daddy, that way. About his things... I’m not sure, I can go look in his room if you want.”  
“Yes, please.”

I accompany her, without asking to be invited, to the back of the house where Craig’s bedroom is. It’s neat and tidy and the items in it are normal teenage boy’s bedroom items. A toy rocket stands on his desk. Schoolbooks and other toys rest on his shelves. A few NCR military posters adorn his walls. “NCR TROOPER... You BRING DEMOCRACY _to This Land_ ”, “WOMEN OF THE NCR Every one of YOU who serves is a SLAP! across Caesar’s face! TAN HIS HIDE, LADIES!” That one has a picture of a very attractive woman in uniform, holding a gun in an action pose. That poster probably recruited more guys than gals.  
It’s all stuff he left behind when he enlisted at 17, and his mother has left where it is. I don’t see anything recent. I check his desk and under his pillow but there’s no note, or any other clue.

I give Mrs Boone my card, in return for which she presses a leaflet into my hands called “Zeta Scanning – How it will help you”. I thank her and take my leave.

As I walk back towards the city centre I read the leaflet. Apparently my “Zeta levels” are being artificially kept down by “polluted Neurodynes”, and I need to visit the Hubologist Centre in NCR City for a “Zeta scan” which will lead to “Alignment” and better understanding of the “Great Wheel.”

Hmm. I don’t think there’s going to be time in my schedule for a Zeta Scan today. Which, come to think of it, are the words I use every time I’m approached by a Hubologist.

By the time I get back into town it’s 3pm and I’m starving. One snack cake does not make a filling lunch. Especially because I’m not much of a breakfast eater. I head back to my office, pick up Tomasz and take him out to lunch.

We go to an eaterie called Dusty’s Cantina and sit outside on the patio. It’s a nice old place, even has a few carefully preserved trees around it. Dusty’s daughter Lou runs the business. Dusty himself is 83 and no longer officially works but he still likes to sit around there every day, “keeping an eye on things.” I like Dusty. You gotta respect a man who makes it to 83 here in the wasteland, the average life expectancy of an NCR City dweller being a whole 58. And 58, by the way, is good - outside the city it’s more like 32.

Tomasz already had lunch, but it was a while ago so I order a big plate of spicy meat stew for me and a small one for him, and bring him up to date on the evidence in the case.

After he’s heard everything, Tommy asks, “How old would you say Mrs Boone was?”  
“I’d guess around 70,” I reply.  
“Hmm. And Craig Boone is 27... so she must have had him when she was 43-ish. That’s doable. Just,” he muses. “She might have a whole lot of older kids. Did she mention any siblings?”  
“No, and I forgot to ask. I’ll ask Craig when I see him tomorrow.”  
“You’re not going back today?”  
“No. He seemed pretty fragile. I want to give him a bit of time to calm down.”

We get up to leave, and I notice an attractive blonde-haired guy at a nearby table is looking at me. Reflected in the front window, I see his eyes follow me out. I keep on walking. I’m great at ignoring possible romantic opportunities.

As we stroll back to the office, I finally get around to asking Tomasz about his Polish-sounding name.

He tells me his family legend. His ancestors arrived in the US from Eritrea three days before the nukes started falling, after traversing the whole of coastal North Africa on two 98cc Vespa scooters, three people on each, followed by a 56-day Atlantic crossing on a rusty old barge. More of a drifting, than a crossing. Without a radio on the barge, they never heard about a war with China. They planned to come to the land of opportunity; instead they arrived to experience a nuclear apocalypse. When the bombs started falling, they headed further west, somehow hoping that they could outrun the horror as they had left the civil war in Eritrea. Only when they hit California and realised that the irradiated wasteland stretched fully coast-to-coast did they stop running.

Tenacious people, the Borowicz family. As for why the Polish names - he didn’t say.

Back at the office, I sit at my desk and do a couple of hours work on other cases before packing up and heading home.

☣ ☣ ☣ 

The evening paper is waiting at my door for me. I kick off my clothes and head into the shower. One of the luxuries of my building is hot and cold running water.

Pleasantly clean, I go sit by the gramophone and ponder tonight’s music, deciding on _I Want a Little Sugar in my Bowl_.

I go into the kitchen but after the late lunch I’m not too hungry, so I take just a few crackers and a bit of strong brahmin-milk cheese out onto the balcony with me to soak up half a glass of wine, and settle down to read the paper.

“EXPLOSION AT VAULT 15!” is the headline. The article says that Vault 15, a long-abandoned Vault east of the city now being used as an engineering substation on the electricity line from Hoover Dam, suffered an explosion early last night, centred around the main control unit, which in turn caused a severe fire. Two engineers were dead from smoke inhalation. The cause of the explosion was unknown but a spokesman for the Department of Energy, responsible for Vault 15’s maintenance, said that it could not have been spontaneous, and must have been contrived by a person placing dynamite or some other foreign substance, as there was nothing volatile in the control unit itself. The security force fields inside the Vault had been disabled. The attacker had left no clues as to his identity other than some footprints found in the sandy dirt around the outside of the Vault, which were of an average man’s boot size and not very helpful beyond suggesting that he had acted alone.

Huh. I don’t know what to think about that, but I can’t help but notice that these events, if related, seem to be coming closer.

I flick over to Lady Polecat’s Social Diary. Most of it is about a party and who was there and some subtly bitchy comments about what the more pretentious amongst them were wearing. Then just at the end, Penelope adds, _“In other news, it seems they’ve collared some sap for the Major murder - but my tea leaves tell me that the tall handsome man they’re pinning it on is not the right one. Will keep you posted, my lovelies!”_

How very odd. I’m starting to think I should do more than just idly wonder who Penelope actually is - I should find out. If she’s hinting she knows something about Craig Boone that puts him out of the running, I ought to hear it.

And hey, there’s no time like the present. I finish my meal, put my shoes back on, and take a little evening stroll downtown, to the offices of _The Bugle_. 

One light is still on. I knock on the door, to no result. I knock again, harder, and a hesitant voice says, “The office is closed, please come back in the morning.”  
I say in my most authoritative tone, “This is Lieutenant Treichler, I need to speak with the editor.”  
“Mr Tibbett is not here. I’m the cleaning lady. Please come back in the morning.”

So much for that.


	5. Boone

9:26 a.m., Thursday April 26th, 2283

The next morning, I have to be in court on other cases. They’re both short hearings, just for sentencing, and if they finish on time I plan to go see Craig Boone again.

When the judge comes in, the prosecutor stands up and outlines the facts of first case, and what he thinks would be an appropriate sentence. Then I stand and make a plea in mitigation for my client, a gunnery sergeant who came home on leave and battered his wife till he cracked her ribs. My speech runs along the lines that he has no previous convictions and that he is a reliable soldier with an important role in the war effort.  
“Furthermore, though I do not wish to minimise the seriousness of the crime, it must in fairness be noted that his wife has forgiven him.”  
It makes me feel a bit weary to say that last bit, but I keep my manner neutral. Spousal forgiveness counts as a moderate mitigating factor in domestic battery cases here, and I would be negligent in my duty if I didn’t mention it.

It wouldn’t count for anything if I made the rules, a point I have sometimes raised at social functions with NCR City lawmakers, but they’ve never shown any interest. The only positive response I’ve ever had was from one City Councillor who suggested that if I wished to make changes to the law I should follow the proper path which is to become a City Councillor myself. He said he’d put in a good word for me if I wished to try for nomination. I thought about it for all of three minutes before I discarded the idea, laughing. The next day I told Tomasz that if I ever decided to become a politician, he was to do his best to talk me out of it; and if he failed and I actually went through with it, he was under orders to assassinate me by whatever means he saw fit. Heh, I’m kidding, no, I just told him to put a bullet in my brain.

The judge retires for a few moments to pretend to consider an appropriate sentence, then returns to declare six weeks in prison, which the sergeant has already served while he awaited his trial, so in effect he is to be released immediately.  
A low sentence, given the crime, you might think? It’s all expedience. They can’t afford to have good fighters away from the front for long.

My client is freed from the dock, nods his thanks to me and extends his hand. I go over to him, ignore his hand and murmur in his ear that next time, the judge won’t be so lenient, so he’d do well to make sure there was no next time.

The next case begins, same prosecutor and judge, different defendant. This time my client is a young cadet who was found to be in possession of counterfeit NCR Dollars. He had a whole pack of them that he was flashing around in a bar. He didn’t actually try to spend any of them, which helps in mitigation; and they were very bad fakes, which makes no difference. He’d told me he just made them to try to impress girls with the “size of his wad”, not to actually use them. I repeat this line to the judge, and get a small smile. I point out that he is very young, and not likely to do such a foolish thing again.

Nonetheless, counterfeiting is a problem the NCR has, and ‘knowing possession’ of counterfeit money is deemed a serious crime. He gets three months, which is the usual one-year sentence for adults halved because he is still a juvenile, and halved again at the judge’s discretion. Maybe because we made him smile.

His mother cries in the public gallery, but as I pass her on the way out she thanks me anyway. I’d prepped her to expect six months.

It’s midday. Free of responsibility for the rest of the day, I decide to go straight to see Craig Boone, and do lunch afterwards.

☣ ☣ ☣ 

At the gate to the military compound I ask but they don’t know if Boone’s been moved from the infirmary yet or not. I hazard a guess that he will have been, and head towards the prison bunker. He is there, and I’m escorted to the conference room to meet him.

The usual wait. When the key rattles in the lock and Boone steps in, I stand to greet him and offer my hand with a warm smile. The past is forgotten; let’s start over. He looks at my hand for a moment and then takes it in a strong grip and shakes it once. I hide my surprise.  
“They treating you ok?” I ask.  
“Yeah.”  
“Your bruises are looking better.” I point to his forehead, ignoring the fresher one around his neck.  
“Mm.”  
“I could put in a complaint about that for you, if you want. Might get someone disciplined.”  
“Complaint about what?”  
“You getting beaten up. Was it the MPs or the prison guards?”

He looks at me for a moment then shakes his head. “Had a disagreement with someone.”  
That’s interesting. “When?”  
“Before I got arrested.”  
Very interesting.

I try to probe more, but he refuses to be drawn any further on the subject, so I change tack. “Where’s your wife Carla da Silva now?”  
“Dead.”  
“And your children?”  
“Don’t have any.”

I get out the photostat of his letter to Carla. “This letter was found on your person when you were arrested. You mention hoping for a daughter?”  
He looks sideways at it and his voice becomes almost inaudible. “Carla died before she was born.”  
“Ok. What about the reference to something happening while you were in the army? What was it?”  
His face closes down even further and he stays silent.

“ _Whatever you learn over time about my service in the NCR, hope you can forgive me_ ” I read out. “Craig, what did you think you might not be forgiven for?”  
“Woulda thought you’d already know that, you working for the NCR and all,” he replies.  
“Well, I don’t. It’s not on your military service record.” I hand him my copy. “You were discharged with full honours. So what was it you’re referring to in this letter?”  
“Major Gilles was my commanding officer at Bitter Springs,” he says heavily, as though I should know exactly what that signifies.  
I raise my eyebrows and look blank.  
“You didn’t hear about that? Huh. Guess it was pretty well covered-up.” There’s a deep resentment in his voice.  
“I guess so. Can you tell me about it?”

He tells me, and by the end of the story, I understand why Gilles was his target, and why he had sneered when he heard she had been re-promoted to Major.  
Boone’s lip curls. “I heard she was in charge of training new recruits now. She’s the last person who should be doing that. She’s got no fuckin’ morality at all and she’s gonna train ‘em all to think like she does. So I came here to kill her.”  
“I see.” We both fall silent. He watches as I write down what he has told me.

After a while I say, “I hear you went to visit a doctor you knew, on Sunday afternoon. What was that about?”  
Boone looks wary. “Just a friend of mine. How’d you know about that?”  
“I visited your mother yesterday. She mentioned it. She’s pretty worried about you.” I half expect him to give me a bollocking for nosing into his affairs, but he shows almost no reaction.  
“Hhm.”  
“She been to visit you yet?” Questioning this man is like trying to get milk out of a long-dead brahmin.  
“Mm.” A small nod.  
“You on good terms with her?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Nice lady.”  
“Mm.”  
“A hubologist.”  
“Mm-hm.”  
“You into hubology too?”  
“Fuck no.”  
“How old is she?”

He has to think about that. “71 now, I think.”  
“So she had you when she was 44?”  
“Guess so.”  
“You got any brothers and sisters?”  
“No. Well. Nah, not really.”

That’s a curious answer. “So you sort of do? Or did?”  
“My ma was married to another guy before my dad, and they had a son, but he got taken. That was a long time before I was born. He’s probably dead. Don’t go talking to my ma about that,” he warns me. “She gets real upset. It’s why she’s gone religious.”  
“I understand. So, who’s this doctor friend of yours?”  
“Just a guy I know from out east.”  
“Gimme a name.”  
“What for.”  
“Cos I wanna talk to him. He might be an alibi for you.”  
“I don’t want an alibi. I’m pleading guilty, remember?”  
“You still say you pulled the trigger on Gilles?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Where’s the gun, then?”

Boone looks completely surprised. “What do you mean?”  
Aha. Let’s test something. “What gun did you shoot her with?”  
“Uh, my gun,” he hedges, suddenly looking nervous.  
“What calibre?”  
“.308..?”

I lean back and gaze at him thoughtfully. He glances at me and looks away repeatedly. He knows he’s made a mistake.  
He mutters, “Or it might have been another, I don’t remember.”  
“Ok, if it was another, where’s the gun?”  
Boone bites his lip.  
“Where were you, in between leaving your mother’s house, and being arrested by the MPs?”  
“Aren’t you supposed to be my lawyer? You sound like a judge.”  
“That’s right. These are the things the judge is going to want to know, and I need to know them first. So. You left your mother’s house on Sunday, after lunch. Where did you go, and who were you with?”  
“I was alone.”  
“No, you saw your doctor friend from out east. What’s his name?”  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
“It matters a lot. Give me his name. I’m going to talk to him. If you won’t tell me, I’ll still find out, but it’ll take a lot longer and you’ll have to sit around in here going mouldy in the meantime.”  
Boone’s jaw juts. “You don’t need to know, and I’m not going to tell you, so just drop it.”

Goddamn obstinate man. “Can you at least tell me where you were before you were arrested?”  
“Just drinking at a bar.”  
“With your friend?”  
“No. Alone.” He answers quickly, but looks away and I know he’s lying.  
“That where you got punched?” I ask, indicating his yellowing bruises.  
“No.”  
“Look, Craig, you obviously don’t enjoy these conversations, so why don’t you just tell me what I want to know and get it over with? I’m not going to let you go in front of the firing squad if you’re not guilty. But, if and when I get you freed and you walk out of here, from that point on your life is your own to destroy, I can’t stop you.”

Boone frowns. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then nods. “I get what you’re sayin’, ma’am. But I want to go down for this. That’s what I want.”  
“You’re protecting someone.”  
He stares through me steadily, and doesn’t answer.


	6. Marlene's move

I tell Boone that I’ll come back and see him again tomorrow. He isn’t going to help me clear him, so I’m going to have to dig up any exonerating evidence on my own.

His court hearing to enter a plea will be on Monday, and I better have turned something up by then. Not to mention somehow talking him out of pleading guilty. So far I’ve made zero headway on that front.

When I get back to my office, Tomasz has two pieces of news for me, both slightly stunning.

The first is an invitation from General Lee Oliver and his wife Gigi to a dinner party at their residence that night. “Plus one”... hm. I’ve met them before, but they obviously don’t know me too well.

The second is that someone has come forward to confess to Major Gilles’ murder. Even before I ask who, I can tell from the look on Tomasz’ face that I’m not going to like the answer.  
“Mrs Marlene Boone.”  
“Wha-? That’s bullshit and you know it.”  
“I know it. But she went down to the MPHQ this afternoon and insisted they arrest her. Kevin called to let me know.”

Kevin McGill is the other NCR defence lawyer, with an office across the street. He takes the cases that I can’t or won’t take, for instance where there’s going to be a conflict of interest; like now. He’s not as good. Or so it cheers me to think.

For a moment I wonder if it’s possible. Could she have done it? To get revenge on Gilles for the damage inflicted on her son, perhaps; or just to pre-empt him from doing it?

One thing about this business is you get a gut instinct for character. Mama’s always protect their sons, but Marlene Boone had a warm, gentle feel about her. She had seemed sad, deeply so, but not bitter. I don’t think Marlene Boone is a stone cold assassination kind of mama. 

“Oh jeez,” I sigh, feeling suddenly tired. Poor Mrs Boone. Her beloved son shows up for the first time in years, and promptly gets arrested for murder. After my visit yesterday she probably stayed up all night fretting and wondering what to do, and finally came up with this delirious, doomed plan.

“She in a cell?” I ask Tomasz.  
“Yep.”  
“Ok. I’ll go see Kevin. Hey, would you like to come to dinner with me at the Olivers’ tonight?”  
Tommy’s eyes get big. “Uh, yeah.”

☣☣☣

Kevin is a soft-faced, genial sort of a guy. He has an annoying habit of always making me wait, whenever I go see him. He always squeezes my hard unnecessarily hard when he shakes it, too, at odds with his pen-pusher physique. I bet he reads these techniques in Salesman Weekly magazine, in articles about things important power players are supposed to do. Show dominance, remind me who’s top dog.

Except it’s pointless, because in our little microsphere of two, I’m top dog; and that isn’t going to change unless he suddenly becomes a considerably better lawyer.

So I weight myself with some casework before I go see him. Might as well use the time productively. 

After the requisite twenty minute wait, Kevin comes out and greets me as though we are best buddies.  
“Tricky! Always a pleasure.” Cue crushing hand-pumping.

Kevin’s office is lined with ancient legal tomes, printed in mock goldleaf, completely out of date and useless, but designed to be highly impressive to the lay observer.

We get down to talking shop. I tell him the details of the prosecution case against Craig. In turn, he refuses to tell me anything he knows, beyond what Tomasz already told me.  
“Client confidentiality, of course,” he says grandly. Like I’ve never heard of it.  
I keep my tone neutral. “I understand that, Kevin, but I’m on Marlene’s side too. I have no intention of implicating her to get Craig off the charge. I doubt he would thank me for that. Can you just tell me what she said in her police interview, please?”  
“I’m afraid not. I already told Tommy everything I am able to say. I cannot compromise my client’s position, it would be unethical.”  
“Alright. Thanks anyway, for calling Tomasz.” I pick up my bag and head out, narrowly dodging another handshake.

What now.

I have nothing to get my client off, beyond the absent weapon. Apart from that one fact, the circumstantial case against him is worryingly strong. He had the required high level of skill, no shortage of motivation, was found exactly at the scene, and admits the crime.

But no plasma gun. Where’s the gun? Either he has an incredible throwing arm and it’s on a roof somewhere, or someone took it and hid it before the MPs showed up... Stop. Wrong line of thought, I chastise myself. My case has got to be that someone else took the shot.

But I haven’t a clue who, or from where, or why.

Not a clue.

Need a clue.

Something niggles at the back of my mind. I’ve got a feeling that there has already been a clue, and I’ve overlooked it.


	7. A dinner party

I head back to the prison compound to see Craig again. I have to tell him about his mother, in case he hasn’t already heard. Can’t say I’m looking forward to his reaction.

“Back so soon, Tricky? You got a thing for this guy, or what?” the guard teases as he shows me to the conference room.  
“If by ‘thing’ you mean bad news,” I reply, seating myself.  
After a while Craig comes in and sits down opposite me, a resentful crease in his brow.  
“Hey, Craig.”  
“What.”  
“I don’t know if you heard, and there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’ll just say it. You mother Marlene has confessed to the murder of Major Gilles.”  
He just stares for a few moments, then starts breathing strangely. A sort of humourless guffawing.  
“I’m sure she’s just saying it to try to protect you, but nonetheless the MPs have to take it seriously, initially at least, so she’s in custody.”  
With no warning Boone leaps over the table at me, knocking me to the floor. Fists pummel my head. He’s not really aiming to hurt, he could hit a lot harder than this I don’t doubt, but it sure gives me a fright.

“Craig, stop!” I yell, using my elbows to shield my face. It stops as abruptly as it starts. When I haven’t felt a blow for a few seconds I peek out and see him on the other side of the tiny room, holding the back of his head and bending over as though nauseous.

I get up and arrange myself, then sit down at the table again. After a while, the ex-soldier composes himself and mutters, “I’m sorry.”  
“Sit down,” I say flatly. He does so, not meeting my eye.  
“Jesus, Craig. Don’t shoot the messenger, ok?” I give him a half-smile to show that we’re sort-of-friends again, at least on my side.  
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and I can tell he means it. “Can you help... can you get my ma out?” His pale eyes are brimming with desperation.  
“I’m not able to represent her, so I can’t do anything, not even go see her. But I’ve been to see her lawyer, and I, uh, have the impression that the confession won’t hold any water. I just came to tell you, so you wouldn’t get a bad knock if you heard it on the grapevine. Don’t worry, Craig.”

I tell him that he will have a court date on Monday morning, to enter a plea, and ask him again to consider the merits of being honest with me about what happened in the 16 hours leading up to the shooting. To which, naturally, I get no response.

I take my leave, feeling vexed. This is one of my more serious cases, and most difficult clients, in recent years, and Marlene’s crazy move isn’t helping.

☣☣☣

Tommy and I arrive at General Olivers’ residence at 7pm sharp that evening, dressed to kill. Tommy’s in a narrow pinstripe suit and blindingly clean white shirt, I’m in a scarlet cocktail dress.

At the door, the butler looks at me askance. When we’re shown into the dining room, an embarrassing co-incidence is revealed. Gigi Oliver is wearing the exact same dress.

“Oh, darling, we’re sisters!” cries Mrs Oliver, clasping me in perfumed arms. “It is not to be helped. A girl cannot help it if she has very good taste!” She winks at me. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

Taking my arm, she steers me round the room, introducing me to the half-dozen or so other guests. I know one of two of them, the rest by sight.

Gigi Oliver is naturally beautiful, and has the very well-preserved look of the very well-to-do. She must be in her mid-forties now, but you could take her for half that, at first glance.

She introduces me to an army major named Curtis, who I’ve seen around but never talked to before. Major Curtis is disconcertingly handsome, with black hair and deeply tanned olive skin offsetting clear blue eyes.  
“Curtis, darling, this is the divine Lori Treichler, she’s a simply fabulous lawyer. She gets _all_ the naughtiest boys off,” Mrs Oliver tells him, eyes twinkling mischievously.

We are shepherded to the dinner table, and seated in a pattern decided by the hostess. I am between Mrs Oliver on one side, and Major Curtis on the other.

During the course of the evening, Mrs Oliver keeps everyone entertained with witty conversation. She makes a point of putting me and Tomasz at our ease. I’m surprised to admit, she is actually quite lovely. I have never experienced such exquisite manners. The rest of us seem barbarians by comparison.

Major Curtis, beside me, is equally charming. He’s one of those charismatic people who looks into your eyes, pays close attention to what you say, and makes you feel special by sheer virtue of his interest. As the evening glides by, he doesn’t say all that much to me, but each time he does, he lays his hand lightly on my shoulder, leans close to speak, and stays close while he listens to my response. I’m instinctively mistrustful of him, but his charm is so intoxicating that I cannot tell if it’s my bad-character-detector going off or just my usual self-defeating aversion to all excessively attractive men.

Desert arrives, and everyone begins to jokingly discuss the difficulty of making ice-cream in the wasteland. Mrs Oliver turns to me and speaks quietly.  
“I hear you are in charge of defending poor Craig Boone.”  
“Yes,” I say, surprised. “Do you know him?”  
“I knew everyone in his unit. I am the official patroness of First Recon. Oh, poor darling Craig, I shudder to think what is happening to him in prison. And his poor mother! It’s a dreadful tragedy, isn’t it?”  
“It is. Did you know his mother has also been arrested?” I ask.  
“I did hear that. You know as well as I do, she’s only saying it to protect him. As would I, in her position, it’s a mother’s duty to protect her babies, after all.”  
“Mm.”  
“Tell me you will get him freed,” Mrs Oliver commands me, her bejewelled hand clutching my bare one.  
“I’ll do my best.”  
“Good. I have faith in you. You seem like an honest, reliable person. Someone who can be trusted to do the right thing,” she says. I could swear she shoots a meaningful look at her husband at that moment, and not a doting one.  
“Someone with the generosity of spirit to look after others, without a thought of themselves, is valuable indeed,” she adds, and now she is definitely looking directly at the General.  
“Maybe you oughta lay off the cognac now,” General Oliver says back to her.  
Yikes. Seems like all is not peaceful in the Oliver camp. There’s a momentary silence around the table as the Olivers stare at each other, then Major Curtis starts a conversation with a colonel across the table about some recent military developments, and the moment passes.

Married couples, huh. Somehow, even when perfectly matched, or perhaps especially then, they always end up sniping at each other.

Still, there but for the cruelty of fate go I. Less than three years ago, I was happily married, with a baby daughter.

Never mind.

After desert we move to a smoking room, and cheese is served, which no one eats because we’re all stuffed. General Oliver comes over and asks me and Tomasz what’s going on with our case.  
Tommy looks at me, so I tell our host the details that are already in the public domain.  
The general looks grave. “Do you believe he did it?”  
“No,” I say.  
“I mean completely off the record here, Lori. Privately, between you and me.”  
“General, I don’t think he did it,” I say, shrugging.

I wouldn’t tell him if I did, of course. There’s no such thing as off the record. Still, if he’s going to pretend there is, I’ll play along.  
“Do you know much about Craig Boone, General? Off the record?”  
“Well, he was involved in some of our more complex actions. He was a good soldier. Just maybe had a little too soft of a heart.”

Roger that. Here in the NCR, hearts are supposed to be hard.

“What can you tell us about Bitter Springs?” Tomasz suddenly pipes up. Oh shit.  
The General turns and regards my assistant steadily. “Nothing. That’s classified, as I’m sure you perfectly well know.” Something obviously occurs to Oliver then. “You think that’s why...”  
“No,” I intervene. “Tomasz mentions it because the only connection between Boone and Gilles is that he served under her command at that time, and it’s hard to find out any information about that action.”  
“I’m probably not the right person to ask about classified actions,” Oliver says to Tomasz, cracking a wry smile.  
“I would have thought you’d be the very best person, for the same reason,” Tomasz counters.  
Well, go kid. I’m going to give him a hot ear for this later, but I have to admire his chutzpah. 

General Oliver stares Tomasz down for a few moments, then turns back to me. “Lori, let’s say you’re right and the shooter isn’t Craig Boone. Who is it, then?”  
“I don’t know, General.”  
“I’d like you to keep me abreast of any evidence you gather that points away from Sergeant Boone.”  
“Were you fond of him, General?”  
Instead of answering, he shakes my hand, tells me it was a pleasure to have my company, eyes Tomasz for another second, and moves away.

I guess we’re dismissed.


	8. Cato

8:11 a.m., Friday April 27th, 2283

I bring last night’s _Bugle_ in with me, because I got home too late last night to read it. Tommy isn’t in yet and the office is quiet. With a fresh coffee on my desk, I lean back and unfold the paper.

 **WAR CRIMINAL CAUGHT!** is the headline, in giant type. The article says that a senior ranking ex-member of “Caesar’s Legion”, a defunct military organisation that the NCR destroyed in several actions across Arizona, was brought in yesterday afternoon. Right about the time I was at my second meeting of the day with Craig Boone. Apparently this fellow went by the name of “Cato Hostilius”, and he’s wanted for an attempted bomb attack on President Kimball, amongst other things. Great bad-guy name, I think as I sip my coffee.  
There are scant details, as the Bugle was just about to go to press when the story came in, but they promise the full story in this evening’s edition.

There’s a blurry photo of Mr Hostilius being brought in. He’s being semi-dragged by jubilant NCR troopers, splattered with blood and with the telltale unfocussed eyes of someone severely injured and experiencing shock.

It’s not good. In fact, he looks so bad that I wonder if he is still alive as I read this. If he is, no doubt he’ll soon be a new client of mine.

I turn to the back page, but there’s no Lady Penelope Polecat’s Social Diary today. Which reminds me that I forgot to go back to the Bugle’s offices and see what I could find out about her. I’ll try again this weekend. Today is going to be a busy day, I have hearings all morning, then I’m off to see Craig again, and possibly this Cato too, if he’s breathing.


	9. Malfunction at the prison

If you are guilty, and the evidence against you is reasonably strong, it’s often worth pleading guilty straight off the bat. Why? Because, in most cases, you will get a significant discount on your sentence in return for an early guilty plea. The longer you waste everyone’s time carrying on the “But I’m innocent!” charade, the smaller that discount gets. If you get all the way to trial, it vanishes altogether.

In most cases. Not in _murder of a commanding officer_ cases. In those cases, the basic, unmitigated sentence is death, and there’s no discount for that. No “slightly less death”. So in Craig Boone’s case, there is no advantage in pleading guilty, no matter how weak his defence is. Even a tiny chance of acquittal is worth trying for.

After a morning in court, I head over to the prison complex to see my recalcitrant client. I’ve got to make him understand this, and soon.

Coming the other way through the main gate is my semi-nemesis Kevin McGill.  
“Hello Tricky! Off to see Boone the Younger, eh?”  
“Yes. How’s Marlene?”  
“She was bailed this morning pending further enquiries. You were in the other courtroom at the time, I believe. No, I’ve been seeing my new client.”  
He’s looking at me all wide-eyed like he’s just dying for me to ask who.  
“Ok. See you, Kevin,” I start to walk on. I know he won’t be able to resist telling me, and I have a feeling I can guess anyway.  
“Cato Hostilius!” Kevin trills.  
“Ok. Good luck with that,” I say, nodding.

That’s annoying. Kevin primarily does smaller, civilian cases. Big military cases are supposed to come to me first unless there’s a reason I can’t take it. Perhaps the people in the allocations office didn’t think Hostilius counted as a military case. Or perhaps they are just trying to do their bit for the NCR, rah rah rah, by allocating him a barely competent advocate.

Oh well. I’ve got other fish to fry. On the plus side, sounds like Hostilius is still alive, at least.

As I walk through the tunnels of the prison bunker, I can’t help but obsess over it a bit, though. Maybe Kevin bribed the allocations office to give him the case. Maybe this is the start of a client-stealing campaign by him. Or, maybe the office is pissed off with me for some reason. Representing Craig Boone? But then, they gave me Craig Boone.

Speaking of whom... 

“Your mother has been released,” I tell him as he shuffles into the seat opposite me, moving as though his whole body aches.  
“Thank you,” he grunts.  
“Wasn’t my doing, but it’s good news all the same. How’ve you been?”  
“Peachy.”  
“Getting enough to eat?”  
“No appetite.”  
“Sleeping ok?”  
“Haven’t slept in years, don’t make a difference now. Hey, wanna ask you something.”  
“Go ahead.”

Boone’s chin juts. “Some guy from Caesar’s Legion got pulled in yesterday. You working for him?”  
“If you mean am I representing him, no, he’s got another lawyer.”  
Boone stares at me a moment, then nods. “Good,” he says meaningfully.

I don’t let my clients dictate who I can and can’t represent, but the argument seems immaterial now and likely to result in bad feeling between us, so I change the subject.

“I had dinner at General Oliver’s last night, he and Gigi asked after you.”

Boone actually looks mildly interested. “That right?”  
“Yes. The general said you were a good soldier; and Gigi asked me to do my very best for you. Did you know her well?”  
“Not really. She works over in the admin building sometimes, looking after personnel files, and she’s the patroness of First Recon.”  
“She mentioned that. What does it signify?”  
“Just that she came to events sometimes, gave us medals, that kind of thing. She –”

With no warning the lights blink out, and we are plunged into total blackness. The only window in the room, the small one in the door for the guards to look through, is invisible, meaning the lights in the hall are off too.

The blackness is so complete I find myself compulsively blinking, as though my eyes might simply be malfunctioning.

Blind, and operating now on instinct, I reach for where I remember Boone’s hand was lying, and hold his warm fingers. He lets me take his hand, and nothing happens for a few seconds. Then a small, unmistakeable sound makes my heart miss a beat. 

The door just unlocked.

Boone hears it too, because he quickly and silently gets up, pulls me to my feet and backs me into the corner of the room with my face pressed into the back of his broad neck. Every muscle in his body is tensed. I listen desperately, but there’s no sound. None whatsoever, not even the usual electronic hum of these buildings.

The light flickers and goes on, and the door lock clicks again. The room is empty but for us.

Boone moves fast over to the little window in the door and looks up and down the corridor.  
“Who was it?” I ask.  
“Don’t see anyone.”  
“It was the door unlocking, though, wasn’t it?”  
“Yeah.”

The strange interlude has made a subtle change in our uneasy relationship. He already knew he could trust me – but now I know I can trust him, too.

I take a deep breath. “Craig, listen. On Monday you’ve got a hearing to enter a preliminary plea, and it’s very important that you plead not guilty. It’s going to be you saying the words, not me, and you’ve got to keep your head. You can always change your mind later on in proceedings. It’s easy to change from not guilty to guilty. Not so, the other way.”  
“I’ve told you I want to plead guilty.”  
“Yes, but hear me out. If you plead guilty, you won’t get to explain yourself or even say anything at all, because there’s no trial, they just jump straight to sentencing, and the sentence for you, with aggravating factors like pre-meditation, is going to be the firing squad. Depending on scheduling you could be executed as early as the next day. At the most it wouldn’t be more than a week. They don’t keep on feeding doomed men any longer than they have to, you know that.”

Boone meets my eyes steadily. He doesn’t look worried about the prospect of imminent death at all.

I pull out my ace. “Think about your mother, Craig. She loves you so much that she still has all your things from when you were a boy, right where you left them. She loves you so much she’s willing to go in front of the firing squad for you. You are the only family member she still has. She already lost one son, and look what it did to her. She cannot lose another, Craig. She needs you.”

As I speak, Boone’s expression changes from stony to uncertain.

I press on. “You’re a good man, Craig. I know that. It’s a crying shame that such terrible things have happened that you don’t want your life any more. But don’t let the judges take it from you. Let me get you out first. Then go home, hug your mother, fix everything in her house that needs fixing, eat her home cooking and tell her how good it is, tell her you love her; and then take it yourself.”

Boone looks at me under lowered brows.

I say softly, “And if you can’t do it then? Then you shouldn’t be doing it.”

He’s silent for a long time. Then he shrugs and says ok.

I’m not completely convinced that he’s really come around, but it's all I can do. We part on an agreement that in consideration of his mother’s feelings, he will humour me and plead not guilty. On Monday, at least.

When the guard comes to let me out, I ask him what happened earlier.  
“Blackout,” he says shortly.  
“I heard the door unlocking?”  
“Uh, just some sorta... computer glitch,” he says, casting a look at Boone. I guess it’s not surprising if he’s reluctant to discuss a security failure in front of a prisoner.  
“Thought you guys had emergency generators that automatically kick in?”  
“We do. Come on, move along.”


	10. The infernal question

I head back to my office to finish off the week’s paperwork so I don’t have to worry about it over the weekend, then I go home. 

The Bugle is waiting for me on my doorstep. “ **Mass Poisoning Averted?!** ” is the intriguing headline.

I follow my ritual, more slowly than usual. I feel exhausted. This week has been a slog.

Kneeling at the gramophone, I don’t know what I feel like. I try _My Man’s Gone Now_. Too mournful. I want sombre, but not tragic. I replace it with _Everything Happens to Me_. Perfect.

Out on the balcony with freshly washed hair and half a tumbler of whiskey and water, I open the paper, and read the lead article, about the capture and preliminary interrogation of Cato Hostilius. He was caught by a patrol, sabotaging a water pipeline sixteen miles east of the city. He appeared to be attempting to introduce some kind of liquid chemical additive to the water flowing to NCR City, the exact nature of which was as yet undetermined.

That’s disturbing. I peer at my drink suspiciously, then sniff it. Seems normal.

The patrol then proceeded to beat the living shit out of him before it occurred to them to compare his face to any of the images of wanted men they are supposed to carry around. By the time they worked out that it was Hostilius he wasn’t much use for questioning any more. They tried to patch him up a bit, dragged him back to the city, and he spent the night in the prison floor of the infirmary.

This morning he had recovered enough to be able to be interrogated by an unnamed NCR military commander. Hostilius had apparently refused to speak in a language they could understand, but had been quite vocal in a strange tongue. A nearby doctor had said he could understand it, but that it wasn’t worth translating. The commander had insisted. Hostilius had then spoken to the commander slowly and clearly, and the doctor translated: “I will destroy you all, I will kill you and crush you, strangle your wife, tear out your lungs, crush your liver and dissolve your limbs,” before the commander called an end to the interrogation.

He sounds completely insane. But then, people behave strangely when cornered. He would have been manacled to the floor, like Boone had been on Wednesday. I’m not entirely sure how I would behave in that situation.

I picture Kevin trying to handle a client like that. Now that must have been funny.

Turning to Penelope Polecat’s column, I’m astonished to see that it’s about me.  
“A glamorous dinner party was held last night at the residence of the Olivers. Amongst the guests was Lori Treichler, legal advocate of the soldier accused of murdering Major Gilles. One can only hope Ms Treichler found some support for her innocent client whilst hobnobbing with the glitterati. As for her choice of attire, I put it to you, dear readers: Who Wore It Better?”

There’s a candid snap of me and Gigi Oliver, in that same dress. I don’t remember anyone taking photos. Someone managed to do it on the sly. Unfortunately only me and Gigi are in the picture, so I can’t discount any of the other guests. Or the butler for that matter.

As for the Polecat’s cheeky question, of course there’s no question. Gigi did.


	11. The lookout

Everything happens to me alright.

Most people, on a Friday night, are out with their friends, drinking, or dancing, or just playing cards. I’m at home, with no company other than a newspaper which is literally mocking me.

But I chose this. I was born in this city, and I used to have a lot of friends here. I still have a few, old friends who I know would be pleased, and probably relieved, to see me if I showed up at their door. But I’ve trained them not to expect it, and not to visit me either. I live in splendid isolation; and while I wouldn’t say it feels good exactly, it feels right.

I guess that’s why I sympathise with Craig Boone, and why I’ve not been particularly successful at changing his frame of mind. He’s tired of life, and I don’t have much I can say to counter that.

The night air is cool and sweet. I admire the reflection of the moon in my possibly poisoned drink. I read a tale once, in a pre-war book, about an old-world movie star named Humphrey Bogart, who shot a film on location in sub-Saharan Africa. Everyone else on the set got sick from drinking contaminated water, but he was fine, because he exclusively drank whiskey.

Smart man. I get up, toss the contents of my glass over the balcony, and go inside to get the whiskey bottle.

By the time a knock at my door comes, half an hour or so later, I have a warm glow on.

It’s Tomasz.

“Hi Lori, hey uh, I just came to see if you’re ok..?”  
“Oh yeah. I’m on the straight stuff now,” I wiggle my glass. “You should do the same. Unless, who knows, maybe he put some good drugs in the water.”  
“I meant, you know, that thing in the gossip column.”

I’d actually forgotten it. “Oh, right. I’m fine Tommy. Fine and dandy. Don’t worry about me. You go off home, now.”  
“Would you like to come to my family’s place for the evening? My mother invited you.”  
“How nice of her! Tell her thanks, but not this time. I’ll see you Monday, Tommy. Have a good weekend.”  
“Ok.” He hesitates. “Lori?”  
“Yes?”  
“You wore it better.”  
“Nah, I didn’t, but thanks anyway,” I grin.  
“You did. Mrs Oliver had too much makeup and jewellery and that overdone hairdo. You looked more natural.”  
“Thanks, kid. You just earned a raise. Now get outta here. Off you go.”

I have important staring at the stars to do.

***

The next morning I feel surprisingly well, considering my sterling attempt at out-Bogarting hostile Cato’s fiendish plan last night.

I decide to go for a long walk, get some exercise and clear my head. I skip breakfast, but take some dried meat and cheese with me for later. Wearing walking clothes and comfy boots, I head out into the sunshine.

First, a stop at the Bugle’s offices downtown.

My knock is answered by a junior who looks alarmed to see me. He asks me to wait and goes inside, but I follow him in. It’s a big room, full of desks covered with stacks of paper and old computers. The editor, a middle-aged guy named Tibbett, is at one of the far desks. I stand in the middle of the room and point at him. He hesitates a moment, then comes scurrying over to me.

“I’m sorry about the naughty photo, Tricky,” he says before I’ve said a word. “But it was just too good, we _had_ to run it. And it’s gotten a lot of feedback from readers. You’re at about 40% so far!”  
“Great," I say drily. "But that’s not what I came to talk about. Your Penelope Polecat has been dropping hints that she knows more than is generally publicly known about my client, Craig Boone. I’d like to talk to her, with a view to helping my client’s defence. Just on the off-chance she knows something that might assist.”

Tibbett perks up like a hound scenting a bone. “Are you having trouble finding something to say in his defence, Tricky?”

Journalists. Always looking for an angle.  
I look nonchalant. “Hardly. He was supposedly at the scene but there’s no murder weapon, so good luck to them getting a conviction.”  
If only I were really that confident.  
“Mm?” says Tibbett, lapping it up and hoping for more.

It occurs to me I can use Tibbett’s newshound nose to get some publicity on Boone’s behalf.  
“By the way, did you know that the victim, Major Gilles, lately in charge of training new recruits, presided over a massacre of unarmed women and children in Arizona?” I ask.  
Tibbett’s eyes widen almost comically.  
“Yeah,” I say. “Investigate ‘Bitter Springs’. It’s classified, but I’m sure you’re resourceful. Meantime, I want to meet with Polecat.”  
“No one meets Polecat, but I can pass on a message if you like,” he replies, eyes now wary.  
“Tell her I want to meet her, about Boone. And no hard feelings about the picture.” I hand him my card.  
“I’ll pass it on.” Tibbett takes my card and pockets it without looking at it.

I walk out, with the eyes of everyone in the room glued to me.  
“Hey Tricky! You wore it better!” one of the men calls as I exit the door.

Sighing, I walk towards Westin Road, wondering how many years it’ll be before people stop telling me I wore it better. I’m going to burn that dress. Gigi Oliver probably already burned hers.

On Westin Road, I stop at Mrs Boone’s cottage, but find her not home. In town getting her neurodynes Zeta-scanned and re-aligned maybe. I leave a note on her door, to say that I visited, and that Craig was well, and would hopefully enter a plea of not guilty tomorrow. “On the evidence, I do not believe he is guilty, and I think the judges should agree with me. Kind regards, Lori Treichler”, I write.

Strictly speaking I’m not supposed to contact her, now that she’s another lawyer’s client in the same case, but that rule isn’t usually too heavily enforced, and I want to dissuade her from making any more wild moves.

Westin Road leads all the way out of town and up towards the hills. Where it then goes around the hills, I plan to go straight instead, and climb up high, to a lookout point I know that gives a terrific view, right over the city and far beyond.

There, I'll rest, eat my lunch, stare at the sky, and enjoy the silence.

☣☣☣

The dot is only small, but the man sees it. Noticing small things is crucial in his line of business. He keeps an eye on it, as he works.

Over the course of an hour, the dot becomes a woman. In mannish clothes, hair and face indiscernible under the brim of a straw hat, but from the hips, and something indefinable about the stride, certainly a female.

When the woman leaves the road and begins to climb the hill, the man puts away his work carefully, hiding it from view amongst the rocks. He climbs onto a higher stone ledge, from which he can observe her progress.

Lying perfectly still, gaze focused on her, he waits.


	12. A touch of significance

The rains of earlier in the week have left the air as sweet and the sky as clear and blue as the eyes of a baby.

It feels good to be using muscle and balance in harmony. I climb up over large boulders, made smooth by the passing aeons, and, since there’s no one around to be appalled at my scratchy, whisky-soaked voice, sing to myself.

“Don’t cry  
Oh honey, please don’t be that way  
Clouds in the sky  
Should never make you feel that way  
The rain  
Will bring the violets of May  
Tears are in vain  
So honey, please don’t be that way,” I rasp, scrambling over rocks and hauling myself upwards.

I don’t see any violets, just irradiated dust and ancient rocks.

But it’s only April 28th. Violets could come. _Hope springs eternal in the human breast..._ whoever said that was certainly half right. Unfortunately, despair has a font directly adjacent.

☣☣☣

As he watches her approach, the man hidden on the hillside above makes a series of assessments. He needs to decide whether to kill her or not. The decision is not a simple one. He doesn’t kill for pleasure.

He will have to reach a decision soon, because she climbs fast. Her footing is sure and her legs are strong. When she stops for a moment to catch her breath, fanning herself with her straw hat, her hair reflects the sun. She climbs on, and he hears her sing in an old-fashioned style. Like the way people sing on the radio sometimes.

Closer. Her face must once have been beautiful, but now looks tired. He knows just by the way she moves her head that she has known grief, of a certain type. The type that changes people forever.

☣☣☣

When I reach the lookout point, a leveled-out area with a 220 degree view, maybe 100 yards shy of the summit, I’m sweating lightly but feeling pretty good. I sit down on a rock for a minute or two, swigging water from a bottle in my bag, then get up and have a look around. From here I can see right across the desert, over the top of NCR City, all the way to distant mountain ranges in the west. Down below on the road, little slow-moving dots close to larger ones indicate a trading caravan, guards walking with pack brahmin.

No breakfast and I’m starting to feel ravenous. I get out my lunch and wish I’d packed a little more. But it’s so rich that halfway through it, I’m not hungry anymore, and decide to save the rest for later.

I come up here most weekends. Not to keep fit, although that is a side benefit I suppose, but to clear my head.

There’s no sound but the faint whisper of the breeze curling around the hillside. I lie down in the warm shade, use my bag as a headrest, and close my eyes. I let my mind go empty, in the way that it can up here and nowhere else.

I honestly don’t know if I fell asleep or not, I think I did but it couldn’t have been for long; but when my eyes open again, I find I have company.

A man is sitting near me, leaning back against a boulder in an easy manner, watching me with faded blue eyes. I look back at him, not alarmed by his sudden appearance. It feels more like a dream.

He has short, oddly whitish hair, that could be a very pale blonde or could be gone an early grey, and a wiry beard of a slightly darker blonde. His age is also impossible to tell, maybe around 40, give or take a decade. He equips well-worn leather armour. He’s malnourished, but I’d say he was a fighter, and at his age, probably a highly-skilled one. I look for a weapon and can’t see one, but it’d be surprising if he doesn’t have one on him somewhere.

Sitting up, I nod a hello.  
He nods once in response, gazing steadily at me.

Many possibilities of who he might be and what he might want from me crowd my mind. I shush them all and decide to be polite and see what happens. I’m unarmed, but I’m a pretty fast runner when I need to be.

“Would you like something to eat?” I ask, proffering the remaining cheese and meat. “Or some water?”  
He considers it, and then says, “I will take some water. Thank you.”

The stranger’s voice is interesting. It’s soft and scratchy, as though he hasn’t spoken in days; but behind that, it’s the voice of someone notably decisive. Someone used to giving commands.

“Are you a trader?” I ask, though I suspect he’s not.  
“No, just a traveler.” He accepts the water I pass him, and I notice that his left hand is heavily scarred, the thumb missing after the middle knuckle.

“And you?” he asks before pouring some water into his mouth, careful not to touch his mouth to my bottle. I’m not sure if he’s being extremely polite, or if he thinks I might be diseased.

“I live down there,” I say, nodding my head towards NCR City. “My name’s Lori.” I offer my hand for him to shake.  
He takes it, and I feel, before I see, that his right hand is even more severely damaged. The ring finger and little finger are both completely missing. He sees me noticing, but doesn’t say anything.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, wondering if he’ll give me a name. He just nods.  
I smile at him.  
He gazes at me.  
“Cheese?” I say, offering it again. Cheese is an expensive delicacy in the wasteland. He eyes it, and it’s obvious that he’s tempted.  
“Thank you,” he eventually says, taking a small piece. He takes a micro-bite, tasting it with his tongue. I have the impression that he hasn’t had cheese before. It gets the seal of approval though. He nods at me again and swallows it.

“So, why’ve you come to NCR City?” I ask, passing him another piece of cheese without waiting to be asked, and having some myself to keep him company.  
“To visit a friend,” is his reply.  
“Ah, friends. I had those, once.”  
“Not anymore?” He seems interested in that.  
“No, I had to let them go,” I say. “They were made redundant, so to speak.”  
“You had no further use for their services?”  
“Mm.”  
The stranger looks at me thoughtfully, and not a little disapprovingly. “I cannot imagine forsaking my friends.”  
“Well, I’d still help them if they needed me to, I just didn’t want them trying to help me. The purpose of friendship primarily being to discuss your personal life; and that’s something I just don’t want.”  
His eyes crinkle and he cocks his head to one side. “You are discussing it now.”  
I make a wry smile. “Touché.”  
“But you are not correct. The purpose of friendship is to achieve things together one could not do alone. And to appreciate each others’ achievements.”

We’re silent for a while, he still regarding me, me looking at the view and occasionally glancing at him. I drink some water, and pass the bottle over again.

After a time, he asks, “Without friends, how do you find your evenings?”  
I shrug. “I listen to music, and look at the stars.”  
“And what do the stars tell you?” he asks, soft as cotton wool.  
“That everything I do... and everything I think is important... is _astronomically_ insignificant.”

And there it is, the secret emptiness of my heart. Something I’ve never articulated before; and I just admitted it to a total stranger.

But his reaction is even more extraordinary. He leans over close to me, and places a lingering kiss on my lips.  
I am petrified.  
Still very close, he speaks in the gentle voice again. “Is that insignificant?”  
When I get my voice back, I can only whisper, “No.”


	13. Damn feelings

He hadn’t needed to kill her to keep her away from his materials. A kiss had been just as effective, the stranger reflects, watching her dash frantically away, leaving her water bottle and hat behind.

She jumps from boulder to boulder, comes unstuck on a loose one, and disappears behind it in a flail of arms and legs. He waits. When she doesn’t immediately resurface, he gets up and climbs carefully down to where she has fallen, finding her sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, holding her left arm below a dislocated shoulder.

It won’t be the first dislocated shoulder he’s reset. Without saying anything he grasps her arm just above the elbow, moves it to a forward angle, puts his foot on her chest and yanks hard. The shoulder pops back into place and she shrieks with pain and surprise.

While she clutches it, crying with pain or perhaps just shock, he unbuckles his chest armour, shrugs out of it, and pulls his undershirt off, using it to make a makeshift sling. She allows him to put her arm in the sling, blinking through streaming eyes.

“Sorry,” she gasps, wiping her eyes with her good arm, while he picks up his armour. “It just hurt like hell.”

He stands barechested, regarding her thoughtfully, wondering if she’s going to continue her downward flight, come back up for her abandoned belongings; or maybe do something else.

She clambers to her feet, and smoothes the sling over her arm. “Have you had medical training?” she asks.  
He shakes his head.

“You seemed to know what you were doing.” She's trying not to stare at the pattern of scars and burns that decorate his torso and arms. “For which, thank you, by the way.”

He watches her speak. She has perfect lips. He’d learned field medicine the same way he had gained all his skills - by trial and error over many years. Some of the errors might have been funny if they weren’t so macabre.

He doesn’t say any of that though.

She seems unnerved by his silence, and, uttering thanks and apologies and goodbyes, sets off downhill again, picking her way carefully now so as not to aggravate her injury.

He watches her go, half sorry that she hadn’t come back up with him. It had been a long, long time since he last kissed a woman. He’d somehow lost hold of the memory of how good it felt. Till now.

It makes him wonder what else he’s forgotten, since his quest for revenge began. Since his internment in the NCR prisoner-of-war camp in Arizona, where he endured 20 days and nights of interrogation accompanied by excruciating physical torture, relentless mental torture and savage sexual humiliation, before a riot broke out, fires were started, and he and Cato escaped. 

☣☣☣

9:03 p.m., Saturday evening.

My shoulder throbs. I thought it was good of that strange man to put it back into place for me, but now I’m wondering if he damaged something.

I lie in bed in the darkness, trying not to move. If I stay perfectly still, it doesn’t hurt too much.

That strange man.

That strangely scarred man.

That strangely fascinating man.

I can’t stop thinking of the way he kissed me, out of the blue like that. No one kisses me, not these days. I don’t let them. But he didn’t wait for permission, he didn’t even wait for an opportune moment. He just went for it.

He’s a man who gets what he wants. But what does he want? What is he doing up there?

I know one thing - I want him. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have had to run away from him like that. It wasn’t that he scared me, I’m used to tough men. He did something much worse - he aroused feelings in me.

I hope I never see him again.


	14. The good doctor, and a note

10:14 a.m., Sunday April 29th, 2283

I’m sitting in the infirmary waiting room, reading the Sunday morning edition of the Bugle, while I wait to see a doctor for my shoulder; the fiery pain of which kept me awake most of last night.

I turn to Lady Penelope Polecat’s Social Diary. Well well well. There’s a message for me.

_Readers sometimes ask to meet yours truly. Sadly my social diary is simply too packed to be able to grant such requests. However I make this heartfelt promise you, dear readers. Any information that comes my way which you ought to know, I shall convey to you with alacrity. You have my solemn word._

Hmm. Why not meet with me? I know she’s on Boone’s side, and it’s nice to know she will tell me anything I need to know – or at least what she deems I need to know – but I would have preferred direct access.

It makes me wonder... last year when the column disappeared from the paper after the exposé on the Olivers’ affairs... perhaps Polecat is afraid of trouble with readers now. Which makes me wonder in turn – does Gigi Oliver know who Polecat is?

“Ms Treichler.”

A familiar-looking man wearing a lab coat and holding a clipboard is summoning me. I follow him down the hall and into a neat office, wondering where I’ve seen him before.

“Have a seat. I’m Dr Gannon. How can I help you today?”  
“Did I see you at Dusty’s Cantina on Wednesday?” I ask curiously. He was the attractive guy who was looking at me, I’m sure of it.  
“I do eat there sometimes. Good chilli.”  
“That it is.”  
“Presumably you’ve come to see me for a medical complaint, not just to reminisce about Wednesday.” He poises his pen above the paper on his clipboard.  
“Ah, yeah. I fell off a boulder and dislocated my shoulder yesterday, and a stranger popped it back in place for me, but it still hurts terribly.” I grip the sore shoulder absently as I speak.

Dr Gannon puts down the clipboard and comes over to me. He moves my protective hand away and gently feels all around the injured shoulder.  
“Has it been put back wrong?” I fret.  
“No, it’s properly placed. It’s just very inflamed from the initial damage. I’ll prescribe you some anti-inflammatories and a few days’ worth of painkillers. It will come right, it’s just a matter of waiting for it to calm down.”

He goes back to his desk and starts writing a prescription.  
“You were lucky someone came along who knew what to do or it would have been a lot more painful,” he murmurs as he writes, then tears off the script and hands it to me. I look at it. It’s surprisingly legible.

He reaches for a bottle of pills on his shelf. “In the meantime, one of these will tide you over,” he says, handing me one, and getting me a small cup of water from a sink in the corner of his office.

“Thanks, doctor.” I pop the pill and wash it down, then put out my hand. Dr Gannon shakes it.

As I turn to leave, he says tentatively, “Ms Treichler? You’re representing Craig Boone, is that right?”  
“Yes,” I say, pausing by the door and turning back to him.  
“Is he going to get off?” Dr Gannon asks. His eyes behind his thick glasses are worried.  
“That depends. He has a plea and case management hearing late tomorrow morning. If he pleads not guilty, then he has a chance of getting off, as they don’t have a weapon.”  
“What do you mean?”  
I explain, “Gilles was shot with a plasma pistol; Boone was found at the scene carrying a conventional hunting rifle.”  
“Oh... ok. So that bodes well for him then.”  
“Maybe not ‘well’ exactly but it’s something. A bigger risk is if he pleads guilty. He’s got a pretty serious death-wish, so that’s a real risk. He’s promised me he won’t though. I hope he’s a man of his word.”  
“He is,” says Dr Gannon firmly. As though he knows for sure.  
“You’re his doctor friend, aren’t you,” I say slowly. That light took a while to dawn. I blame the sore shoulder distracting me.

Dr Gannon blinks nervously.  
I press him. “Was it you who Craig came to see the day before Gilles was shot?”

The doctor looks all around the room, evasively. Then he takes a deep breath, apparently deciding to come clean.  
“Yes. We were friends in Arizona. Brothers in arms, you might say. After the battle of Hoover Dam, I got a job with the NCR as a field medic, then later came out here to practise medicine and conduct research in a... less chaotic setting. I lost touch with Boone for a while, till I saw him last Sunday.”

“Alright. Tell me what happened Sunday. Every little detail. What did he say, what did he do.” I don’t have my pad and pen with me, so I help myself to writing materials from Dr Gannon’s desk. He doesn’t object.  
“Oh, gee, let’s see. He showed up around midday, maybe early afternoon. He didn’t say much. I was working, so I said I’d meet him in the officer’s bar after I clocked off at 5pm.”  
“Right. Then?”  
“He said that was alright with him because he had some paperwork to do. He was going to change his next of kin from his wife to his mother. So his mother would get the veteran pension if he died. That was the first hint I had that something was very wrong.”  
“What about his demeanour?”  
“Well, that might have been a hint too, I guess, but he was always pretty dour, that’s just him.”  
“Ok. So then?”  
“Yeah, he headed off to the admin building to do that. I met up with him at five, like I said, and he was already some way towards drunk. We had some more drinks, then I got him to drink some coffee, not that it helps really, but at least it isn’t alcohol.”  
“Go on,” I say, writing everything down.  
“He was drunk enough to loosen the screws at the back of his tongue, and he,” Dr Gannon’s voice lowers to a barely audible whisper, though there are only the two of us in his office, and the door is closed. “He basically admitted he was in town to get revenge on Major Gilles for what she did at Bitter Springs.”  
“Mm.”  
“So I had to stop him.”  
I look up at that.  
Dr Gannon looks vexed. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t be talked round.”  
“I can believe that,” I nod. That’s Craig Boone all over.  
“He said he was going to do it that night. So I told him to stay there at the bar, and I went to get a sedative. I thought I could knock him out for a while, you know, to give me more time to talk sense into him.”  
“Go on.”  
“When I came back, he was gone. I ran back outside and saw him in the distance heading towards the fence. I chased him and when I caught up with him we... he kind of didn’t want me there, and we got into a fight.” The doctor takes his glasses off and cleans them, not really looking at what he’s doing. He’s obviously having bad memories of that night.

“What happened then?” I nudge him on.  
“Well, he wasn’t stopping, so I picked up a flat stone and clobbered him. He was knocked out for, I don’t know, maybe twelve or fifteen seconds. It wasn’t long, but it was long enough for me to inject the sedative. He started to come around, then went back down as it hit.”

I suck the end of the doctor’s pen thoughtfully, then remember I am in a disease-infested medical office and feel like spitting.  
Resisting the urge, I say, “So it was you who caused the bruises around his face I saw the next day.”  
“Yes.” Dr Gannon frowns in embarrassment.  
“What did you inject him with? What would be the effect and how long would it last?”

Dr Gannon names a chemical I’m unfamiliar with. I write it down, asking him to help me with the spelling.  
He explains, “It should have made him sleep off the rest of the night, and he’d have been woozy most of the next morning.”

Consistent with the account given by the MPs who said they found Boone in a dazed state that morning.

“Then?”  
“Then I left him there,” the doctor says, shaking his head, and frowning again. “So stupid.”  
“Where did you go?”  
“I went home. I planned to come back first thing in the morning to collect him. But when I got near, there were MPs everywhere, and it had already happened.”  
“Ok. I might need to come back and talk to you again. And I may need to call you as a witness, when it comes to trial,” I say, tearing off my notes and returning the doctors pad to him.

Dr Gannon nods. “If there’s anything I can do to help him, please ask me. Don’t hesitate. Ok?”  
“Deal.” I shake his hand again, and take my leave.

By the time I get out of the infirmary, via the dispensary, into fresh air, that small but powerful pill he gave me is taking effect and I feel much better. I decide to go to the officer’s bar for lunch, scene of their meeting, to think about what Dr Gannon told me, and to soak up the ambience. And maybe soak up a glass of wine while I’m at it.

☣☣☣

As I leave the bar, there’s a huge commotion outside. A lot of armed soldiers at the gates, shouting and jeering. I walk uncertainly towards the gate, not sure how I’m going to get through what looks like a lynch mob. Then I stop and watch, dumbfounded, as the men part to reveal six MPs pulling a chained, freshly-beaten looking man towards me. The chained man is my stranger from the hill. He sees me and stares into my eyes as they pull him past.

The oddest thing is, he doesn’t look frightened or angry. His demeanour seems somehow serene, even amused. His eyes are lively, and he holds my gaze, turning his head to keep looking at me as he is dragged away towards the prison block.

I guess I have a new client. 

☣☣☣

When I get home, there’s another surprise in store for me. My straw hat and water bottle are sitting on the kitchen table. I’m pretty sure I left them up on the hill. I know I did.

There’s a handwritten note resting on the brim of the hat. I pick it up and read it.

I CAME BY TO KISS YOU AGAIN. 

BE HOME NEXT TIME. 

It’s signed with a large “X.”

I stare wide-eyed at the note.

It’s too early to say which he is - a stalker, with a scary sense of entitlement, or an ardent admirer, with a scary sense of humour.

Either way, the man is definitely a little scary.


	15. A visit from Mrs O

I search my apartment looking for any other thing that he might have done. I don’t want strange men stashing contraband in my place. Probably ought to change the lock too; although the existing lock presented no barrier, so I guess a new one wouldn’t be any more effective.

Nothing else looks out of place. The combination of a sleepless night with Dr Gannon’s pill and then a glass of wine at the officer’s club is making me feel lightheaded. It’s still only mid-afternoon, but I pull the blinds, lie down on the sofa, and fall into a drugged sleep.

I dream I’m at the prison. Guards take me down steep corridors and narrow stairways to the cells, deeper into the bowels of the complex than I knew existed. I glance into the illuminated observation window of a cell as I pass, to be confronted by Craig Boone, body limp, hanging by the neck from the light fitting. Revulsed, I nevertheless try to get into his cell to take him down, but the guards won’t let me and I feel relief and nauseating shame in quick succession. They push me into the next room, locking me in. It’s another cell. My wrists and ankles are now manacled. I’m the prisoner. Footsteps approach, and I feel unaccountably frightened. The door unlocks, and my lawyer steps into the room. He leans against the door and cocks his head to one side, giving me a pitying look. It’s the stranger from the hill.

I jerk awake, sweating in the afternoon heat. Someone is knocking at my door. Too many visitors, lately. This better not be someone coming to tell me I wore it better.

It’s the person who did wear it better. Gigi Oliver gives me an uncertain smile as I open the door and let her in.  
“I’m so sorry to come unannounced, Lori darling,” she says, looking around my place with an appraising eye. “My, is that a gramophone?” She goes over to the ancient machine and starts poking around with it.  
“Mm,” I murmur, wondering what she wants.  
“Put a record on for me.” She gives me one of her custom blinding smiles that makes an order seem like a billion-dollar offer. How can I resist? I go over, dust off the needle and gently drop it down onto grooved vinyl. The distinctive piano opening of _The Other Woman_ fills the room. I hand the record sleeve to Gigi to look at.

Gigi’s smile fades as she listens to the song. “What a peculiar piece of music,” she says, when it ends. She reaches over and turns the volume down low so we can talk over the next track.  
“I just popped around to say hello. I heard you were in the infirmary this morning.”  
“News gets around fast.”  
“It’s a small community,” she says lightly. “Are you well?”  
“Yes, thank you. I hurt my shoulder but it’s fine now. Would you like a drink?”

It’s still sore, really. I fancy a drink to wash down another painkiller. Gigi agrees and we move into the kitchen, where she leans against the door, watching me make our drinks.  
“Thank you. Cheers,” she toasts me when I hand her hers. We move out to the balcony.  
“How’s the lawyering business?” Her voice is so casual it makes me wonder if she needs a lawyer and that’s what this is about.  
“It’s good. Do you need a lawyer?” No point pussyfooting around. I want her to hurry up and say what she wants to say, so I can get back to my splendid solitude. And maybe back to dozing.  
She laughs, and it’s genuine. “Heavens, no. But you’ll be the first to know if I ever do!”  
I smile politely and sip my drink.  
“You have a magnificent view from up here,” she observes, leaning out over the railing to look across at the military compound. “You can even see where poor Boone shot that woman from. Were you at home when it happened?”  
“I was tucked up in bed. And I don’t think he did shoot her.”  
“Why do you say that?” she asks, still looking out; with that appraising look again, as though she were mentally measuring distances. Maybe she thinks I did it.  
I give her the obvious reasons, not mentioning Dr Gannon’s assertion that Boone was heavily sedated. I’m keeping that piece of evidence quiet, to spring out at the trial.  
Gigi looks unconvinced. “They say he hated her with a vengeance. It does seem an extraordinary coincidence that he turns up and one day later she gets shot. I thought you justice-types didn’t believe in coincidences.”  
“On the contrary, if coincidences never occurred, that would be much more extraordinary,” I reply.  
“Hm.” Gigi sips her drink, then smiles warmly at me, I don’t know why. She seems to want to be my friend. I don’t know why that is, either. I may have to explain to her that I don’t find much use for friends anymore.

“Craig is such a sweet boy,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s shocking. You simply must protect him, Lori. Perhaps your best chance to get him off will be to find a better suspect. Did Gilles have any other enemies?”  
“Not that I know of. Other than the Great Khan tribe, who seem unlikely candidates, and ‘everyone who served under her’, according to Penelope Polecat.” I suddenly remember that I wanted to ask Gigi about our mystery gossip columnist. “Do you know who Polecat is?” I ask abruptly, watching her reaction for clues that she knows her. Or is her.  
Gigi’s smile remains, but her eyes go brittle. She brushes a bit of dust off the balcony railing. “No.”

Her reaction is definitely strange, but I can’t tell what it means. It’s not the wide-eyed faux-innocence of someone who was pretending it wasn’t themselves, though. It’s more the look of someone who doesn’t know, and is vexed by the same question.

“Who do you think took that photo at your party?” I ask.  
“I don’t know. I think it must have been one of the staff, but none of them will admit to it,” she answers, and for a moment I see flash of steel in her demeanour. I’ll bet she gave them hell over it.  
“Could one of your household employees be Penelope?” I suggest. That would explain the access to high-level gossip.  
“That idea has occurred to me also, but I don’t think so. I have changed staff completely this year. And I keep a pretty close eye on them.”  
“Nonetheless, one of them, or perhaps one of your guests, certainly has private access to her.”  
“Perhaps it is you,” Gigi offers a cheeky smile, her relaxed manner restored.  
“I was in the photo,” I remind her.  
“So you were. And lovely you looked. Well, I must be getting along, Lori. Come and see me sometime, darling. Whenever you want a chat. It is so nice to talk to someone of real quality.”

I usher her out, wondering if she meant me or her. Either way, and despite its intended warmth, the implicit elitism leaves me cold.

Tomorrow I have to see Boone in the morning, and some other clients, one of whom will likely be my mysterious white-haired shoulder-relocator; then appear in court for several plea and case management hearings and sentencings. I won’t know the exact order until tomorrow when the court posts the list. In the meantime, I need to do a bit of work to prepare.

Regretting the drink and pain pill, as they’ve made me feel hazy again, I work slowly until the sun starts to go down.

As evening falls, I put some music on and go out to sit on my balcony. The lights of the military base come on, deceptively pretty as they twinkle in the dusty air. Over there, in chains, is my strange paramour. The first man I’ve let kiss me in two years. Not that I let him, exactly.

When the record ends I go in to put another on, tentatively fingering the sleeve of one that I haven’t had the heart to listen to in the same number of years. Yes. Tonight, I have the heart.  
The opening notes of _You’d be so nice to come home to_ fill the air.

“Be home next time.”

Will there be a next time?

What has he been arrested for, I wonder. Hopefully nothing serious. Vagrancy, perhaps. Would he even be in jail now if I had been home?

Or would he be on my balcony, listening to the night sky with me.

 _You’d be so nice_  
_you’d be paradise_  
_to come home to_  
_and love_ , croons the gramophone.

Well, that might be overstating it a bit.

In the kitchen I pour half an inch of whiskey into a tumbler, fill the rest of the glass with water, and go back outside. I sit there quietly, sipping, replaying yesterday and today’s scenes in my mind’s eye, long after dark blue turns to deep black.


	16. An impressive charge sheet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just separating the previous chapter into two, with a few small amendments.

7:28 a.m., Monday April 30th, 2283

“What do you think,” asks Tomasz.  
I reread my new client’s charge sheet again from the top, without answering, absentmindedly chewing a thumbnail as I take in the magnitude of his alleged crimes.

“Vulpes Inculta”, another perfect-hook of a bad-guy name, is accused of a litany of war crimes the like of which you don’t come across too often. In fact, I’ve never seen anything quite like it in my career.

1\. Murder of NCR and tribal civilians;  
2\. Civilian labourers forced to support war effort;  
3\. Deployment of child soldiers;  
4\. Use of poisons and/or chemical weapons on the battlefield;  
5\. Looting of NCR property;  
6\. Summary execution of wounded military personnel;  
7\. Cruel treatment of POWs;  
8\. Outrages upon diplomatic plenipotentiaries; and  
9\. Criminal environmental modification as a weapon of war.

The last one, I’ve never heard of before. The charge details allege that he ‘modified’ the environment of an NCR military base known as ‘Camp Searchlight’ by increasing its ambient radiation count from 440 microsieverts/hr to a lethal dose of 6 sieverts/hr, leading to the deaths of eight soldiers and the ghoulification of 27 more.  
Good grief. How does one achieve that, short of detonating a Mini-nuke?

He supposedly did all this whilst in charge of a unit in Caesar’s Legion, the same organisation the insane-seeming Cato Hostilius sprang from. I think back to the way he had come across to me on the hill. Dangerous, yes, but thoughtful with it. Sweet, almost.

Murder and enslavement, even of juveniles, though. My imaginary sweetheart suddenly doesn’t seem all that sweet, nor so nice to come home to. This warlord was actually in my apartment. I’m going to need to install a deadbolt.

Except I don’t, because with a charge sheet like this there’s no way he’s getting out of maximum security confinement any time soon, or in anything but a bodybag.

“Shocking, isn’t it,” Tomasz says when I look up at him. I just nod.

He hands me another piece of paper. It’s the court list. I’ve got a case management hearing at 11am, another client being sentenced at 11:15, then Craig Boone is listed to plead at 11:45am. Everything tends to happen in the middle of the day, because the judges like to prepare for cases in the mornings, and in the afternoons retire to consider what’s been said.

“Thanks, Tommy. I’m off to the prison. Anyone wants to see me, I’ll be back in the office around two.”  
“Can I come with you to see this guy?” Tomasz asks, pointing at Inculta’s charge sheet.  
I hesitate. Yes, I should take him, it would be good training. But this could get embarrassing, depending on what Inculta says. Or does.  
“Not this time, Tomasz.”  
My assistant’s face falls. “You’ll come next time,” I promise, feeling like a bastard.

I walk to the prison, so lost in thought that when the guards hail me I have no memory of the trip. It’s like I just teleported there.  
“Lieutenant Treichler, to the cells,” I say, holding up my i.d.  
“You going to see that Vulture Cult piece of shit?” one of them, a short, heavily-built guy, demands to know, pointing a finger at me accusingly.  
“Everyone deserves a fair trial, even pieces of shit, you know that,” I reply neutrally.  
“He doesn’t.”  
“Would you prefer a show trial, and a public execution?”  
“Yeah. I’d take Sandie my three-year old, and let her see how we deal with that breed of scum.”  
The other guards agree vociferously with him. I walk on.

You’d think, with such strong views on crime and punishment, that that guy would be squeaky clean himself, right? Nope. I know that guard. His name’s Bryant, and he was a client of mine about eight years ago, up on a gang-rape charge with three other soldiers. He was guilty as sin, but got off on lack of evidence. The prosecution couldn’t prove to the satisfaction of the judges that the sex, which occurred in an alley outside a bar, late at night, wasn’t consensual.  
So he’s about the last person who should be cheerleading for show trials, but one thing we all know, logic never stopped a hypocrite.

When I get to the prison block and ask at the sergeant’s desk to see Boone, the officer on duty gives me a serious look.  
“I got real bad news Tricky. I don’t wanna say it... but...”  
Oh no. “But what? Is Boone ok?” I ask, blood turning cold with fear. Hanging by the neck. My dream flashes vividly in front of my mind’s eye.  
The duty sergeant exchanges a glance with his colleague. “But Mrs O wore it better,” he says solemnly.

The two men cackle with laughter. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I’m so relieved Boone is still alive that I don’t dispense any _fuck you_ s, instead merely observe, “Huh. This coming from a guy who’s right now wearing the exact same outfit as a thousand other guys in and around the building, including the one standing right next to him.”  
They actually stop to look at each others’ uniforms, as though surprised that they’re the same. "Hmm," I murmur, pretending to look thoughtful. "Nope, it's impossible to call which of you is wearing it less well."

☣☣☣

Down in the cells, my meeting with Boone starts off promisingly. I go over what will happen in today’s hearing, what questions he will be asked and what he needs to say. He nods his agreement.  
But when I tell him, “I met your friend Dr Gannon yesterday,” Boone’s brow knits.  
“I told you to stay away from him.”  
“No, you told me you wouldn’t give me his name. I found him quite by accident.” Literally.  
Boone stares down at the table, jaw clenched.  
“It’s ok, Craig. It’s good. He told me he sedated you, so you would have been too groggy to take a shot at Gilles.”  
“Keep him out of this. I’m telling you. He stays out of this,” Boone’s voice is an angry growl.  
“He wants to help you, Craig. Mind explaining why you’re so adamant you don’t want him to?”  
Stubborn eyes fix on mine. “You want me to say 'not guilty' today. Not gonna happen, unless you swear to me Gannon stays out of it.”

We gaze at each other for a while, he angry, me flummoxed.  
“Swear,” he repeats quietly.  
God damnit. “What if Gannon won’t stay out of it?” I hazard.  
“You can keep him out,” Boone says, but he's uncertain.  
It’s true, I can - by simply not calling Gannon as a witness. Gannon has no power to insist on being heard if neither I nor Boone want him there. But I do want him there.  
“We can keep any relationship between yourself and Dr Gannon quiet, Craig,” I say carefully. “We could just say you were a passing acquaintance from out East, and met for a drink to catch up on news of mutual friends.”  
Boone squints at me. “He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” he says drily. So much for that theory.

The ice that finally thawed between us on my last visit, when the power went out, seems to have built right back up again with the mention of Dr Gannon. What is it Boone is trying to protect, if not a secret romance?

Then it hits me. He’s trying to protect Gannon himself.

He thinks Gannon did it.


	17. Vulpes

Vulpes Inculta lies motionless on the concrete floor of Cell 6-23, a tiny, windowless room. There’s no door, instead he’s kept in by a forcefield composed of horizontal bars of photonic resonance. They glow a brilliant sunburst orange, beautiful to look at but instant death to pass through. He’s in solitary confinement, supposedly an extra privation, but it’s good, gives him time to think. 

He breathes slowly and evenly, to the casual observer a picture of relaxation. Someone who knew him, though, would recognise the look of steel in his eye. Reincarceration in an NCR facility was always going to be disturbing, and he had mentally prepared himself, but the actual experience is one that it was impossible to completely anticipate.

Unfiltered thoughts and memories crowd his mind, demanding attention, and he fights them back, forcing himself to decide on an order of contemplation. First he will run again through what he needs to do, including all foreseeable contingencies. Once clear and certain of that, he will reward himself with consideration of the woman. After that, he will allow memories of his previous internment to refresh his rage.

It’s quiet in the solitary confinement area. Vulpes’ eyes are open but he has stopped seeing. He visualises the blueprints Picus showed him, and thinks.

When his path of the next few days is as clear to him as it can be, his thoughts turn to her. Lori Treichler, she’s called. A defence advocate, equally admired and despised in this town, according to Picus. Lauded for sticking to her guns, even when widely decried for the same reason.

The meeting on the hill had been random, yet felt so fateful. He was surprised by her lack of fear of him. She was surprised by his kiss.

He surprised himself with how much he wanted to kiss her again, despite her being NCR, the faction he reserved his most burning hated for.

Was it possible to hate what someone stood for, and love them at the same time? Vulpes pondered the question, but came to no conclusion. He didn’t hate her, though. He should, but he just didn’t feel it. He didn’t love her either, but he could. He had that unmistakeable feeling, vanishingly rare and all the more thrilling, that comes when you meet someone you could actually love.

What kind of woman was she? Not warm, at least not initially. A cool-headed woman, but at the same time, open and honest in a way not commonly found in anyone but children. Yet she was not childlike, not at all.

He had thoroughly explored her apartment, seeking an answer to that question. It was austere, furnished only with necessities except for the gramophone. Clean but not fastidiously so. Very little in the kitchen. Running water and a working refrigerator, which were extraordinary luxuries. He had examined her bathroom, looking for signs of male occupation. None apparent. The bedroom similarly lacked any obviously male belongings. Her closet held an odd variety of clothes, floral dresses through to stern dark suits, all carefully looked-after, all obviously her own.

In her nightstand drawer, paydirt. Under some layers of interestingly silky underwear, which he’d memorised the positions of before lifting them out to sniff and feel against his cheek, was a framed photograph, face down. Her, some years younger, arm in arm with a man, both smiling. Between them, they held a tiny baby, just a few weeks old.

She looked younger but not that much younger. Certainly not enough for the child to have grown up and moved away. And there were no children’s belongings in the apartment.

So. The source of the grief was discovered. Vulpes had put the photograph back carefully, arranging the undergarments over it exactly as they had been.

He had lain down in her bed for a while, then, smelling it, imagining her sleeping there. It was so comfortable he could easily have fallen asleep himself, but he had other things to do.

Like go get himself arrested.


	18. An unexpected bearhug

I lean back and look Boone in the eye. “You think Dr Gannon shot Gilles.”  
Across the table from me, Boone looks stricken. I see his jaw clench. Clamming up. Ah crap. So far, I’m doing such a lousy job of persuading him to work with me on this, I wonder if I’m in the wrong line of business. Not that I can imagine Kevin McGill or anyone else having more luck with a nut as tough as Craig Boone.  
Putting on a serious expression, I modulate my voice to its most earnest tone. “Craig, I don’t think Dr Gannon did it. Firstly, why would he? Just to save you from doing it? He already prevented you, by sticking you with a needle full of sedatives. Secondly, he didn’t come across to me like the psychopathic type, which he’d have to be, to go off murdering a person he barely knew just because a friend of his wanted to kill her. Thirdly, Major Gilles was killed by someone with a marksman’s skill. Not just an ordinary good aim. Not just lucky. Someone exceptional, who would have had to have known they were exceptional to even try to make that shot. Fourthly, Gilles was shot in the heart. That suggests to me a personal grudge. And lastly, chances are Gannon has an alibi, because he says he was walking across town towards the scene at the time of the killing. Like as not, someone probably saw him, and they’d remember him, he’s a distinctive-looking guy.”

Boone watches me speak, and slowly the furrows in his brow ease.  
I press my advantage. “It’s ok, Craig. Dr Gannon is not in danger. I can’t see any reason why someone would make accusations against him.”  
Boone nods slowly.  
“Why did you think he might have done it?” I ask, curious.  
“It was when you told me they think she was shot with a scoped plasma pistol,” Boone says in a low voice. “That’s what Gannon uses.”  
“Lotta people have plasma pistols, Craig.”  
“Not out in the Mojave. Pretty rare, out there.”  
“Nothing rare about them in NCR City, these days. So don’t worry about it anymore, ok?”  
“Ok.”  
I stand up and collect my things. “I’ve got to go, I’ll see you later this morning in the courtroom.”  
“Alright,” Boone nods. He gets to his feet too, and clasps me in an unexpected bearhug. Taken by surprise, I pat his shoulder uncertainly, saying, “Ok. It’ll be alright.”

The hug is sweet, but I break away after a few seconds and say goodbye again.

I scoot out of there as fast as possible before Boone remembers that I never did promise not to call Gannon as a witness.

Which, if it had happened, I guess I could get around by quietly suggesting to Gannon that he offer himself as a prosecution witness, then help us out; but that would be being tricky.

While I walk upstairs to request that my next client be summoned, I think about Craig Boone. Every time I see him I come away vexed. Emotionally he’s up and down like a yoyo. Default position, down. Worse, he’s as stubborn as a mule, and he honestly doesn’t care if he gets killed. Clients like that are incredibly frustrating to represent. I like him. Behind the deathwish I’m pretty sure there’s a wonderful guy. But I don’t know if he can ever overcome the emotional damage he’s suffered. Maybe Arnette Lang, the shrink, would know; if she did her job and actually talked to him.

My next client is a young corporal who was caught stealing plastic explosives from the armoury. To trade for drugs, he tells me, which were to give his younger sister to sate her habit, without her having to sell sex for the money. He says her clients are “high-ups” in the NCR chain of command, and begs me to keep it all a secret, to protect his sister from these unnamed authority figures. Head in his hands, he tells me he’d rather just plead to the theft, no explanation. Those are his firm instructions - even after I warn him of how severe the range of penalties for stealing from the armoury are - and it’s my duty to follow them. Another stubborn customer. I give up and prepare a statement with him, containing what little he is willing to reveal in court.

In a moment of civic-mindedness, I offer to try to help his sister, if he is genuinely afraid for her safety. She could tell me if anyone threatens her, and I could store the information somewhere secure as a kind of insurance policy. He shakes his head sadly and says no, she’d just use the connection to try to squeeze money out of me.

Well that was depressing. It’s now just after 9 a.m. I leave the conference room and head outside to take a break for a few minutes.

Much better, outside. I suck down deep breaths of fresh air. It gets claustrophobic in the prison block after a while; but it’s not just that. My next interview is with Vulpes Inculta.

Unfortunate, that I wasn’t home when he visited. Unfortunate, too, that he got locked up a mere day after we meet. Very unfortunate that the first man I’ve had any feelings for in a long time turns out to be a prolific war criminal.

I’m not usually intimidated by clients, but I feel uneasy. This is no ordinary client.

An imaginary conversation runs through my head.  
_How’s your shoulder?_  
_Better, thanks. And thanks for returning my hat. How did you find my apartment, by the way?_  
_I found it quite pleasant._  
_Ha ha. No doubt you searched it._  
_Of course._  
_Find anything interesting?_  
No, stop. I don’t want to know what he thought about that. I don’t want to pursue that line of thought at all.  
_I guess I should quit having imaginary conversations with you, and go in and have a real conversation with you._  


Pondering my own sanity, I head back into the gloomy interior of the complex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgement: The 'imaginary conversation with Vulpes' was inspired by Adira Tyree's delightful work here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1267582/chapters/2617441  
> (I just went back to look at it, to get the URL, and discovered there are MORE CHAPTERS! Nice!)


	19. Romance and vengeance

It’s easy to lose track of time, three levels underground, with only artificial lighting and very little movement or sound. Vulpes notices the shifts. The guard walks past his door and glances in every thirty minutes, he estimates. But since he woke up, disoriented and forgetting for a strange few seconds that he had voluntarily incarcerated himself in an NCR dungeon, he doesn’t know the starting point anymore. Only a guess.

Footsteps approach, sounding different to the usual half-hour patrol. More men, and more purpose. Vulpes is on his feet immediately. Never wise to be caught at boot-height.

When the guards stop at his doorway and deactivate the forcefield, Vulpes is standing in the centre of the room, arms loose at his sides. Ready to tangle.

But they haven’t come to beat him up, or drag him to a torture room.  
“Lawyer visit,” one of them grunts.  
Lawyer? Why would a prisoner of war be assigned a lawyer? Unless... _she_ has come. 

He’s taken up two levels, to a room about as small as his cell, with a table and chairs bolted to the floor. In one of the chairs sits Lori Treichler, wearing an austere dark grey suit that he recognizes. It had looked drab in her closet. Seeing her in it now, he sees the point of it. She’s achieved a look simultaneously dead serious; and drop dead gorgeous.

The guards push him down into the chair opposite her, then one of them says, “Alright, Tricky?”  
“All good,” she says, flicking a dismissing glance at the guard and then back to meet Vulpes’ eyes. The guards leave, locking the door behind them.

“ _Tricky_?” Vulpes queries, returning her gaze.  
“Slow-witted people like to call me that,” she says evenly.  
Vulpes regards her. A slow smile spreads from his mouth to his eyes, making use of muscles he hasn’t used in a long while. “Maybe you shouldn’t answer to it.”  
“I choose my battles,” she replies. “I see someone’s knocked one of your teeth out.”  
“It happened when I was arrested.”  
“About that, how did you come to be arrested? You told me you were coming to NCR City to visit a friend.”  
Vulpes acknowledges that with a small bow of the head.  
“Is it a coincidence that another ex-Caesar’s Legion man was caught a few days earlier?” she asks.  
“My friend.”

He watches understanding dawn on her face. Her thoughts are flying, now.  
“You handed yourself in... just to see Cato again...”  
“It’s not working very well. I’m in solitary,” he says self-deprecatingly. He’s just joking; it doesn’t make a difference.

Vulpes’ thoughts are flying, too. Why has she been locked in here with him? Unarmed; and he not even cuffed. The guards seem to have abandoned her and walked away. He glances around the room, looking for disguised camera lenses. Nothing. Yet she doesn’t look worried. A little tense, perhaps, but not as frightened as she might be, given that she must by now have learned who he is.

She looks at a piece of paper on the table in front of her, and asks, “How should I pronounce your name?”  
He teaches her, V like a W, long U, soft S. She repeats it till she has it perfect, and each time she says it he feels a warm sensation.  
“You remind me of someone,” he says.  
“Who?”  
“A woman I saw in a holoflick in New Vegas, once. A very old one. She was telling a man how to whistle.”  
“Hmm. Funny you mention that. You remind me of someone from a holodisk, too.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yes. A white-haired man in crusader armour, smiling as he played chess with the grim reaper.”  
Conjuring that image, Vulpes can’t help but smile a little. “And, are you here as a representative of the grim reaper?”  
“No.”  
“Perhaps you’re my angel of mercy.”  
“I wish I could be.” She looks again at the paper in her hand. “Vulpes, with what they’re charging you with here... a conviction on any single one of these will put you in front of a firing squad. The only way you’re getting out of here alive is if we get you acquitted on each and every charge. I haven’t yet received the prosecution evidence against you, and when I get it I’ll come and see you again to go through it, but in the meantime, have a look at this list and tell me your thoughts.”

She offers the paper, and he takes it and looks at it out of politeness, but he doesn’t really care what it says. The list is actually surprisingly short. They’ve compressed his many acts into nine ‘genres’ of crime. Not all of them were even crimes, in his view. He had been a child soldier himself. Hadn’t done him any harm; quite the opposite – it made him a man. Looting NCR property wasn’t a crime either, since it was all misappropriated by the NCR in the first place. And “outrages upon diplomatic plenipotentiaries”? That sounded quite comical. In reality he had merely pistol-whipped some NCR emissaries sent to negotiate a ceasefire. But he likes the way they describe it better.

Reading the list actually makes him feel nostalgic. Those were days of true glory. Now it is all lost, and he lives only for revenge.

Being with her, though, he thinks maybe he could live for something else. Romance. In addition to revenge, of course. The thirst for vengeance will never leave him, of that he’s sure.  
“So, your thoughts?” she asks.  
“Romance and vengeance,” he repeats softly, still gazing at the list of his misdeeds, now sightlessly. The great themes of human history; and he had not understood why, till now. And he had never pursued them. Till revenge became his obsession, after the fall of the Legion. And romance? Well, who says a man can’t have two passions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Competition: gold star for anyone who can name the two films they referenced.


	20. The missing thumb and the present danger

Ever since my personal life fell apart two years ago, I’ve had a falling sensation. Falling, endlessly, never hitting the ground. To keep from spinning out, I’ve focussed on the steadiest – and least personal - thing in my life: my job. 

The problem is, right at this moment my job is sitting very close to me looking damnably attractive.

Without saying anything, without even looking at me, he makes the room feel different.

It’s just chemical, I remind myself. Pheromones. A simple automated attraction between a man and a woman, without deeper significance. Don’t surrender to it.

They’ve clipped his hair and beard down to a dusting. Remanded men are clipped like that to reduce the incidence of lice. It makes him look older, and leaner. One side of his mouth is bruised and he has lost a canine since we last met. His knuckles, though, are undamaged - or at least, not freshly so. Meaning someone socked him in the mouth and he didn’t punch back. Maybe he was already handcuffed by then. Or maybe he’s a born-again pacifist.

His liquid eyes, gazing at the list of his terrible crimes, have a faraway, almost wistful look in them.

Pacifist my ass. “Remembering the good old days?”  
The faraway eyes focus in on me. “You are a very perceptive woman.”  
“I try to be.”  
“However, you have some blind spots.”  
“I wouldn’t know. I’m blind to them.”  
“You are living in a bubble.”  
“You sound a little condescending, there.”  
“I apologise. I am merely stating matters as I see them.”  
“Ok,” I say. Time to get things back on track. “Well, inside the bubble is a jail cell. That’s where you are. And in this bubble, keys don’t get thrown away. If someone gets life, they get death. So shall we get on with it?”  
He makes a _be my guest_ gesture.  
I point at the list. “About the charges against you.”  
He shakes his head slightly. “Forget them. They are meaningless. Just a list of exhausting efforts, that ultimately led nowhere.”  
“They are not meaningless. Can you go through them one by one, please, and tell me which, if any, you admit, and which you dispute?”  
“No.”  
“...no?”  
“I will not go through them one by one. You may choose my answers for me; it makes no difference.”  
“I see. I’m guessing you’re saying that because you think you’re pre-destined to be convicted. But that’s not how it works. It’s part of my responsibility to ensure your trial is fair, Vulpes, and I take that seriously. These charges are what you are being called to answer for. So they are not meaningless, and what you say does make a difference.”

He doesn’t answer, instead getting up and walking over to the door, leaning close to look out of the observation window up the hallway, one side then the other.

“They locked you in here with me,” he muses.  
“Yes. That’s normal, when I visit my clients. Otherwise, they might wander away.”  
“Or attack you.”  
I smile automatically. “That never happens. Almost never,” I correct, remembering Craig Boone grabbing me round the throat in here less than a week ago. “Can we talk about your case, Vulpes? I don’t have long.”  
An infinitesimal shake of the head, then he glances out of the window again.  
“You’re going to need -”  
“No.” He looks at me. “Thank you. I don’t need anything.”  
Déjà vu. Speaking of Boone – seems I’ve got another obstinate man with a death-wish on my hands.

I change tack. “They treating you alright in here?”  
“Yes. Don’t worry. They haven’t even remembered to torture me yet.”  
“We don’t do torture in the NCR. That’s against our rules of engagement.”  
He nods and pretends to look impressed. “What noble rules your society has. Strictly theory of course. Practice is much different.” He gives me a left-handed thumbs-up sign. The thumb is half missing. He wiggles the well-healed stump at me.  
A cold feeling comes over me. “You’re saying...?”  
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been a prisoner of the NCR, Miss Treichler.” He turns back to the window as a guard passes with another prisoner.

Should I pursue this disturbing line of information? That depends. Is it a distraction from the matter at hand? Yes. Is it my responsibility to pursue? Also yes.

Reluctantly, I pick up my pen. This is going to fast-track me towards the top end of General Oliver’s shit-list. “How did that injury occur?”  
“By use of implement not unlike a bolt-cutter.”  
I start writing it down on my notepad. “Wielded by?”  
“One of a series of nameless lackeys interrogating me. Under the direct orders of a Colonel Cassandra Moore.”  
My pen freezes mid-word. “How do you know that?”  
“She was in the room.”  
Oh, no. Moore is virtually untouchable. Make that beyond the top of the shit-list. “When and where?”  
“After the Battle of Hoover Dam, in the NCR’s concentration camp there.”  
I draw a heavy line under the notes. Then another. “Ok. I’ll look into it. Meantime, try to be good. I’ll be back to see you when I get the prosecution information.”  
“When will that be?” He looks at me with the wistful eyes, then checks the corridor again.

“Usually by the next day.” I get up and approach the door, intending to summon the guard. Before I can rap my knuckles on the steel he intercepts my hand. I look at him, worried for a moment, but his eyes are twinkling, now.

Ah.

He gently pushes me against the corridor-side wall, where a passing guard would not easily be able to see. I don’t try to resist. His mouth and stubbled chin ghost over my lips and cheek, and I close my eyes. Rough hands caress my hair and neck.

“When I look at you, I wonder,” he whispers. “What would it be like, to be loved by you? How good it must feel, to be the one whose framed portrait hangs in your heart.”

So I let him kiss me. Because hell only knows, life is as short as it is long, and there’s got to be some pleasure in it.

His kisses are warm, slow and sweet. Before I know what I’m doing my arms are around him, pulling him even more tightly to me.

When he starts to slide his hands downwards, though, I snap to. “We can’t do this. Stop.”  
“We can do whatever we want.”  
“No. I can’t,” I say, skirting around him and retreating to the relative safety of the other side of the table, hastily smoothing my hair and suit. “If the guards catch me kissing a client I’ll lose my practising licence,” I whisper.  
He stays by the wall, visibly frustrated.

“Not to mention that it’s completely unethical, whether I’m caught or not,” I mutter.  
“Why is that?”  
“Because of the power imbalance between us. It’s exploitative.”  
Vulpes looks incredulous. “You, exploiting me? For kisses? Haha!”  
“Shh! Yes, alright, it sounds exaggerated in the circumstances, but that’s the rule. A lawyer cannot have an unprofessional relationship with a client. It’s an abuse of position.”  
His eyes get their twinkle back. “Ah, Miss Treichler. What alluring words you use.”

Holding one hand up as though to ward off evil, I move to the door again. As I bang on it for the guards to come, I laugh a little with him. Heavy footsteps sound in the corridor, coming closer.  
“You have stubble rash,” Vulpes whispers, then gives a playful smile when I clutch my face in a panic just as a guard’s face shows in the window.  
“What’s going on in here,” the guard demands suspiciously when the door swings open.  
Composing myself, I reply, “Nothing. My client just told a bad joke. Good day, Mr Inculta. I’ll be back to see you again when I have the prosecution’s evidence against you.” I swish through the door with all the appearance of propriety, if illusory. As though it wasn’t lying in tatters on the floor behind me.

And I’m not falling anymore. I’ve landed. Into his arms. Where they will lead me, I don’t yet know.

“What was the joke,” the guard asks, as he escorts me up to the custody desk and the light. Other guards are taking Vulpes in the opposite direction.  
“Something about a barrister walking into a bar.”  
“And?”  
“Bartender says what’ll it be.”  
“And?”  
“He says, nothing, I’m just practising.”  
I just made it up, but the guard guffaws anyway. I am apparently a tolerable comedienne now. I am definitely a bad lawyer now. What just happened should never happen, and it’s up to me to make sure it never happens. I let him refuse to answer my questions, and worse, I let, no, I _wanted_ him to kiss me. That was seriously unprofessional, and I mentally slap myself all the way back to the office.

And my heart goes pitter-pat all the way, too.


	21. A spot of blackmail

As soon as I get back to my office I rush into the bathroom and stare intently at my chin in the mirror. No stubble rash.

I didn’t shut the door, and behind me Tomasz leans into frame, eyes all big and curious. “Lori? You ok?”  
“Yes thank you.”  
“How was the meeting with Inculta?”  
“It was...” I pause, wondering if there even exists a word that might accurately encapsulate what just happened. “...confusing.”  
Tomasz gives me the raised eyebrow. “Did you order a psych report?”  
“Not that kind of confusing. He’s... very intelligent, and very charming too,” I begin.  
“Like a psychopath,” Tomasz nods.  
“No, not really.”  
“He come across as highly manipulative, would you say?”  
“Somewhat,” I concede.  
“Classic psychopath,” Tomasz affirms sagely. Case closed.  
“Hm. Tommy, in this business, you’re going to have to learn not to pre-judge. A person can be all of those things without having a mental disorder. You yourself are intelligent and charming, and I freely admit that I can be manipulative, but are we psychopaths?”  
“We don’t have a history like this, though,” he holds up a bulging manila folder.  
“Oh, we got that already? Hand it over.”

I don’t have time to read it properly now, but I go through to my desk and flick through it, paying particular attention for any reference to him having been captured before. No mention, that I can see. Lot of other nasty stuff though. Jeez. Caesar’s Legion seems to have been a barbaric organisation, and cultish in their obsessive following of Edward Sallow, self-styled “Caesar”.  
An escaped recruit had this to say about Inculta: “He never talked to us, except the first day. He told us ‘Do whatever Caesar tells you to do. Whenever the opportunity presents, strike at the profligates.’ That’s, like, the NCR. And then he said, and his face was really scary when he said it, he went, ‘Pile body upon body’. That’s when I knew I had to get out.”

Ok, maybe I spoke too soon about the psychopath bit.

It’s 10:37. The first of my hearings is at 11, so I’ve got to get over to the courthouse fast. The judges don’t smile down indulgently on counsel slouching in late, even so little as a few seconds. I grab my briefcase, already prepared early this morning with all the paperwork I need for today’s hearings, and zoom out, pausing for a moment by Tommy’s desk on my way.

“Tommy, there should be another file on Inculta, a prisoner record from an internment camp near Hoover Dam. Would have been from... when was the Second Battle of Hoover Dam?” I really should pay more attention to outside affairs. Anyone would think I was living in a bubble.  
“End of ’81.”  
“Right, from then or soon after. Track it down for me, please.”  
“Sure thing.”

☣☣☣

I get there in time, and the first two hearings pass without any drama. The third is Craig Boone’s.

Three armed guards bring him up into the dock from a trapdoor below. There’s a tunnel down there that leads straight from the prison. I turn around to give him a nod of greeting, and get the most intense death-stare in return. I give him, ‘query?’ He gives back, ‘I’ll see you in hell’. Uh oh.  
“Please state your full name for the record,” the court clerk says in a monotone. The guards flanking Boone pull him to his feet.  
“Craig Joseph Boone.”  
The clerk reads from a piece of paper in front of her. “Craig Joseph Boone, you are charged with one count of first degree murder, in that on or about the morning of Monday April 23rd, 2283, you did discharge an energy weapon at Major Brenda Margaret Gilles, a ranking officer, with the intention of seriously injuring or killing her, and causing her to die of such injury. How do you plead?”  
Craig’s voice is quiet in level but rock solid in tone. “Guilty.”

I pop up like a jack-in-the-box. “Your honour, may it please the court, I am Mr Boone’s defence counsel, and as such I wish to make an urgent submission.”  
The judge transfers his gaze to me. “Proceed.”  
“She’s not my lawyer!” yells Boone from the dock.  
I maintain eye contact with the judge and make no reaction to Boone’s outburst. “Your honour, based on Mr Boone’s conduct since he was arrested, which the staff at the infirmary can attest to, and based further on the conversations I had with him in conference on Friday afternoon and this morning, I have grave doubts as to Mr Boone’s competence to plead.”  
“You’re _fired_! Hey!! She’s NOT my lawyer!” Boone hollers, trying to drown out my voice.  
“What do you suggest?” the judge asks me, also completely ignoring Boone’s increasingly wild yells from the dock.  
“It’s my submission that an adjournment for psychiatric assessment would be the most appropriate course of action at this juncture.” The judge already knows that’s what I’ll say, of course, but we have to go through all the motions. The antiquated world of the courtroom is a world of conventions and protocols.

The judge considers me for a moment, then looks over my head at Boone. Behind me, Boone’s yells, muffled now by the guards’ attempts at subduing him, continue.  
The judge leans down and whispers to his clerk. I watch him with a calm outward demeanour, _c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon_ reeling through my head.  
The whispering stops and the judge fixes me with a stern eye. “Very well. This hearing is adjourned, with no plea entered, until a psychiatric report is received by the court, supported by affidavits from relevant infirmary staff.”  
_Phew._  
“...Which must be no later than at this time tomorrow.”  
_Yikes._  
“I am most obliged, your honour.” I bow my head deferentially, and remain standing in a formal pose while the judge collects his papers and leaves the courtroom. He takes his sweet time. I have just 24 hours to put together something that’ll keep Boone’s head off the chopping block. Still, not much is better than nothing.

Meanwhile, Boone’s tirade isn’t finished. “Turncoat bitch! You’re fired! You fucking traitor! Fucking scum-sucking Legion lawyer!”  
Getting my things together, I approach the dock. “Craig,” I murmur, trying to speak in a low voice so he will have to quieten down to hear me. His face is a picture of hurt and fury, and as I get close he suddenly lunges and hurls something small and white at me. The guards leap on him and an all-out fight kicks off. Boone disappears from view, wrestled onto the floor of the dock by the three burly men. Thumps, whacks and grunts emanate from behind the barrier.

The projectile lies at my feet. Recognising it, I crouch to pick it up. It’s my handkerchief, beautifully embroidered with fine pink and yellow flowers. Now damp and balled-up. I shake it out, on the off-chance that he might have hidden a message in it. It’s encrusted with some thick, pale substance. With a distinctive odour. Oh gross. Yeah, that’s a message alright. _Fuck_ you.

The brawl recedes away down the tunnel and the trapdoor closes, bringing merciful quiet. Wrapping the defiled handkerchief in another one from my pocket, I head out, next stop the army admin building.

Kevin McGill is lounging at the front desk. “Well hello there!” he greets me cheerfully. “I hear you had a bit of a setback in there!”  
I keep walking. “Oh, yeah you missed a good show.”  
“Heh. Ah, so how’s it going?” He falls into step beside me.  
“Going fine, Kevin. Operative word being ‘going’. See you.” Not very polite of me but I don’t care. My 24-hour clock is ticking.

I push through the doors, but he continues to follow me.  
“Er, Lori, can I have a word with you about something?”  
“You can talk and walk at the same time, can’t you?”  
“Of course. It’s er, about these Caesar’s Legion fellows. Have you had any luck getting through to yours?”  
Ah. “Hostilius as good as his name?”  
Kevin grimaces. “Hostile would be an understatement. The only thing I can get out of him is that he wants to see your client, Inculta. Who is apparently being kept in solitary? So I was wondering, as a kindness to, er, both of our clients, if you could take steps to have your client moved to general population?”  
“And that will soften him up towards you.”  
“That’s the idea.”  
Well, well. Kevin McGill, asking a favour. A plan is falling into shape in my mind.  
“Kevin, I could possibly do that for you. But let me ask you something. What do you know about Arnette Lang?”  
“Arnette... the psychiatrist? Not much. What do you mean?”  
“I mean, have you got anything on her.” I say pointedly. No time for subtlety.  
“Oh. Ohhh, I see,” he says, getting it. “Well, not anything personally, exactly, but I did hear something once.”  
“Like?  
“That’s not always tea in her teacups.”  
For that, he earns a smile. “Thank you, Kevin. About your problem, I’ll see what I can do about getting my client moved so they can be together. I think he’d appreciate that too. But listen, I did some reading on these Caesar’s Legion boys this morning. They’re hardline. Seriously hardline. Chances are you’ll never get any kind of compliance out of Hostilius.”  
“Are you getting anything sensible out of yours?” he asks.  
“Hmm. I’m getting something. Wouldn’t call it sensible, exactly.”  
“Mine is completely mad, I think.” Kevin looks despondent.

We’ve reached the gates of the military complex. I say goodbye to Kevin, and i.d. myself through, heading for the admin building where Arnette’s office is.

Fortune favours the bold. Arnette is in her office, sipping from a teacup brimming with suspiciousness as I enter without knocking.  
“Hello, Arnette.”  
“Oh! Hello Lori? Is everything alright?” she says, clocking my humourless expression. She puts the cup down and knits her fingers.  
I go right up to her desk and half-sit on the edge of it. I don’t get a kick out of intimidating people but this is an emergency. Picking up her teacup, I swirl it around, and sniff it. Always better to check the facts before making free with the accusations. And, what do you know. The ‘tea’ has flammable fumes. Kevin is going to get a Christmas card from me this year.

“What are you doing? Put that down. Get off my desk.” Arnette stands up, but even then she’s still shorter than me. With that and her pouffy hair, she’s not very scary.  
“Where’s the bottle, Arnette? Easy-access top drawer? Or skulking in the bottom drawer of ignominy?”  
She gives a gasp that is almost funny in its exaggerated outrage, and stabs a finger towards the door. “How dare you! Get out of my office!”  
“Ok. I’ll go in a minute. But you and I have something to discuss first: Craig Boone.”  
“We already talked about that!” she says shrilly.  
“Calm down, Arnette. Did you ever go back and see him again, like you said you were going to?” I move off her desk, but don’t sit down, instead wandering around her office, inspecting things. I want her to calm down, but not to get too comfy.  
She doesn’t answer, and when I glance at her she’s got a defensive look in her eye and a bunched-up set to her mouth that tells me no, she never did go back.  
“Consumption of alcohol during work hours is severely frowned-upon by our superiors; but you know that.”  
“You can’t prove anything!”  
“Of course I can. Proving things is precisely my line of work. And speaking of jobs, you would certainly lose yours, and not be able to get another easily either.” I shake my head, sympathetic.  
Arnette starts to blink a lot behind her glasses, and hisses, “What do you want!”  
“I want you to go visit Craig Boone right now, and then I want you to come back here and write a report stating in terms of absolute certainty that he is not currently fit to plead.”  
“But... but...”  
“No buts.”  
“What you’re doing is blackmail!” she cries.  
“Asking you to do your job properly? Preventing an innocent but depressed man from pleading guilty and misusing the Republic’s firing squad to kill himself?”  
“It’s not proper! If that’s the situation then there’s nothing that can be done. I can’t write a report saying he’s not competent when really he is, he’s just suicidal. Suicidal and legally incompetent are two different things, Lori!”  
“I am well aware of the distinction. Your report will state that he is not competent, and will give convincing reasons as to why. What they are, I leave up to you.”  
“You are asking me to lie.”  
“Yes. For the greater good. In return for which, I promise not to tell the truth either.” I smile brightly, toasting her with her own tattle-tale-teacup. 

Frowning furiously, she grudgingly agrees, and I escort her over to the prison complex and wait while she goes in to visit Boone. She doesn’t take long. When she emerges, I walk with her back to her office, then leave her with the instruction to have the report ready by the end of the day.

On the positive side, obtaining a helpful psych-report turned out easier than I expected. On the negative, I can no longer honestly claim that I’m not tricky.

Next stop is the infirmary, to find someone to swear an affidavit. It just has to say that Boone came in last week with self-inflicted injuries, seeming to not be in his right state of mind. I go up to the second floor and walk around looking behind curtains till I find the day-shift matron, the same one who was on duty last week. She’s occupied with fitting an oxygen mask to a very frail-looking man, and tells me she’s too busy to write an affidavit, but she agrees to swear to it if I’ll draft it for her.

The waiting area had a couple of plastic chairs, so I go sit there and write it on the spot, by hand.

That done and signed, I leave. Now just to wait until Arnette’s report is done. Which I’ll have to read pretty carefully, to make sure she hasn’t done anything sneaky. Like write _help I’m being forced to write this!_ in the middle of a boring bit.


	22. Major Curtis

Looking at my watch I see it’s just after 1pm. I barely ate this morning and I’m hungry, so I decide to go get a takeaway from Dusty’s Cantina, and have it at my office while I read Inculta’s file, do some more research on this bizarre gang of violent fanatics who worshiped Edward Sallow, and try to process everything that happened this morning. 

Dusty’s is packed. I join the queue, looking at my watch again and wondering if I should just forget about it. But the smell of chili con carne wafting from the kitchen is just too good, and my stomach won’t let me leave.

“Well hello there,” says a warm, rich voice from behind. Turning, I find Major Curtis has appeared close behind me, all handsome and smouldering. “Good to see you again, Miss Treichler,” he says, nodding approvingly. What he approves of, I’m not sure.  
“Hello, Major Curtis. How are you today?” I say, making an infinitesimal step back, lest the waves of his excessive manly charisma drown me.  
“That much better for seeing you,” he says, all in the same moment smiling, touching my shoulder, and stepping forward to close the safety gap I had created. “You can call me Ron.”  
“I know.” I smile back, mouth only. There’s something about deliberately attractive men that I find deeply off-putting. It’s not that I don’t like them exactly, it’s just that this kind of carefully-cultivated beauty has a ring of phoniness I’m inherently resistant to buying into; and if they shine their interest on me it just makes me wonder what they want from me. Right now Major Curtis is making me feel like I’m under a spotlight. Damn but it’s hot in here. I feel a trickle of sweat wending its way down the small of my back. Now another dilemma. To take the suit jacket off, or will he take that as capitulation?

I keep it on. Behind Curtis, more people cram into the Cantina, making him move even closer to me. I try to back away but my bottom immediately touches that of the person queuing in front of me. Ugh, inadvertent bottom-touch. Cringe. I have to inch back towards Curtis again. 

The Major is looking at me with an expression I can’t interpret. He says pensively, “I’m very curious as to what sort of person you are, Miss Treichler.”  
This statement has me surprised, and while I’m wondering what an appropriate answer might possibly be, he speaks again. “I hear that Sergeant Boone confessed this morning.”  
“He didn’t confess.” I’m starting to feel claustrophobic. Memo to self – never again come to Dusty’s at this time of day.  
“Really? It’s being said around the base that when he was asked, he said guilty; is that not what happened?” Curtis looks at me intently.  
More sweat tickles my back. “He tried to plead guilty -” Screw this. I‘m getting out of here. “... but the hearing has been adjourned for reports. Excuse me, Major Curtis, but I’m out of time for lunch, I think I’d better go. Nice to see you again.”  
“Goodbye, Lori,” he says softly, to my retreating back.


	23. Pictures of you (in hell)

I head back towards my chambers, via a snack stand where I pick up a skewer of barbecued gecko. Still chewing on it, I arrive at my office building to find Tomasz sitting on a chair he’s put outside the open front door, which he does when it gets too hot and he needs some fresh air. He’s fanning himself with a manila folder.  
“Hey Tommy. All good?” I hail him.  
He gives me a funny look. Kind of a pained half-smile. “Hi Lori. Ah, I got that report you asked for.” He holds up the folder. “Secret service report on Vulpes Inculta’s detention in Arizona.”  
My eyes widen. “Wow, Tommy, that was fast work. Well done. I’m surprised they just handed it over like that.”  
“They didn’t exactly. It’s heavily redacted.” He hands the folder to me. “But there are photos.” The sickly look again.

I take the folder and go into my office to sit down at my desk and read it. Thick black lines everywhere, hardly any sentences left intact. It’s slim, just 15 or so pages. Apparently he refused to speak so much as a single word during his 20 days in detention. He was interrogated every day, and at nights kept in something called a “compression room”, no further detail of what that might be, but none of their efforts produced the hoped-for capitulation.

So far, so grim. But flicking through some of the photos at the back I start to feel as sick as Tommy looked. The first two are ok. But when I reach the third, the crispy gecko turns to ash in my mouth, and my appetite vanishes. I drop the rest of the skewer into my waste basket, take a deep breath, and force myself to examine them all.

There are five images in total. The first two are from the day he was captured. There’s a simple mug shot, head and neck only. His pale hair is unkempt and gummed up with dried blood in places. His light, lively eyes seem to look out of the picture, engaging with the viewer. I feel a twinge in my heart. The next is a full-length picture, taken at the same time, him still in armour, fresh from battle. He wears a torn and bloodied red tunic, hardened leather breastplate with what look like a couple of bullet holes in it on the right side, and sturdy boots. He has protective bindings around his palms and wrists, secured in place with silvery-grey gaffer tape. I see the tell-tale burn marks of a cattle prod on one bicep and on the side of his neck. He’s also got a few small cuts and a smattering of bruises of variable vintage, but in both pictures his expression is cool and defiant.

The rest of the photos are another story entirely. All full-body shots, apparently taken during his interrogations. One is dated three days after capture. I blink slowly. It’s hard to look at. He is on his back, secured to a frame, stark naked, there are red welts on his skin around his torso and thighs, and there are wires leading to electrodes clipped to his testicles. His teeth are clenched, bared in a grimace, and his eyes are wide and agonized, staring at the ceiling.

I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Electrodes on the testicles? Who would use a technique at once so sophisticated and so barbaric? I can’t help trying to imagine what it must feel like. From his expression, excruciating beyond words seems like a fair guess.

And that’s not the worst. The fourth photo, dated 10 days after capture, is hideous. He is suspended by the ankles from rails on the ceiling over a large tub of dirty looking liquid, his body twisted to keep his mouth above water. If he fell unconscious he would drown. His muscles look agonizingly taut, keeping him in that twisted shape for who knows how long. His face is badly beaten, lips puffy and his eyes are swollen shut. His hands are visible, handcuffed together. I see his missing thumbs. Wait a minute... I look again at the third photo. Only one thumb missing, on the more damaged hand. The other is fully intact, nail and all.  
In the fourth photo, it’s a dark stump. So he wasn’t lying about that either.

I’m so lost in the horror of the scene that I don’t notice Tomasz come in, until he speaks.  
“What do you think.”  
I look up. For a moment I can’t speak. The NCR tortures people. Not just rough handling by ‘overzealous arresting officers’. Not just beatings in custody by bored prison guards. Proper torture, with _equipment_. Dedicated torture equipment, that someone had commissioned, someone had created, for the explicit purpose of torturing another human being. I feel revolted. And I feel so, so stupid for not having been aware of this before, not even believing a victim of it when he showed me.  
“Uh,” is all I can manage to say.  
“They messed him up pretty bad,” Tommy says, nodding at the folder. “Surprising he made it out alive. I didn’t know we did that kind of...” he trails off.  
“Torture.” I say it for him.  
“Yeah. Lori, isn’t that banned under the Code? Even for people like him?”  
“Yes it is,” I say softly. I close the folder. Then I open it again. The electrodes are still there, the thumb is still hacked off, the eyes are still so swollen that the taut black skin over them is shiny. Now I notice blood trails across his body in zigzagging lines. I quickly close it again.

“What’s he like? In person?” Tommy asks.  
“Um. I don’t know. He seems... actually really nice. I know he can’t be, but that’s the way he comes across, to me at least.”  
Tommy’s eyebrows rise. “ _Nice_?”  
“Yes. Very polite. Thoughtful. Funny sense of humour. He’s sort of sweet, in a way.”  
“That’s weird.”  
“Why?”  
“Because that Cato Hostilius guy, the other one from the same organisation - he’s a violent, raving madman.”  
“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe that’s just a show he’s putting on for us.”  
Tomasz shakes his head in bewilderment. “Why? What do these guys stand for?”  
I shrug, equally at a loss to understand it. “I honestly don’t know, Tommy, even after reading up on it. They followed a cult leader. They did whatever this leader told them to do. But this cult used to forcibly recruit child soldiers, and chances are, Cato and Vulpes were recruited that way. If so, it’s not too surprising if they are a little unusual in their outlook.”

Salient point, counsel for the defence. But that kind of poor-lads-they-never-had-a-chance argument holds no sway with judges.  
“Well, what did the leader stand for, then?” persists Tommy.  
“From what I’ve read, he was expansionist, militaristic, and trying to build a new republic uniting the south western states.”  
“Ok,” says Tommy slowly, “in what way was he different from President Kimball, then?”  
“Lower age of conscription?” I manage a smile. “Plus, Caesar's conscripts weren't paid, and there was no end to their tour of duty. Death was the only way out. Oh, and he hated women. No one knows why. Mommy issues, I guess. At least equal rights is one thing Kimball is reasonable about.”

The folder is still sitting open in front of me. I could use a whisky right now, I admit it.

Tommy turns to go, then turns back. “Oh, I meant to tell you, they’re holding a funeral service for Major Gilles this evening. We ought to go. The murderer might show up.”  
“OK. I think that only happens in holodiscs, but we might as well,” I agree.  
“We have to look for people who appear to be crying but whose faces are dry,” says Tommy confidently. “I read that’s what murderers do. They make a big show of ‘crying’, but secretly they’re happy, so they can’t actually manufacture any tears.”  
“Huh,” I say, wondering what Tommy’s been reading. Before I can ask him, he goes, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone with the folder of horrors.

There is one photo I haven’t examined yet. I don’t want to, but I can’t allow myself to avoid it. _He’s still alive,_ I remind myself. _He’s alright now._ Except how alright can you be, when you’ve experienced torment like this?

Biting my lips, I force myself to look at the fifth photo. It’s dated 17 days after capture. He’s lying on his side on a cracked concrete floor, bound hand and foot, naked again except for some kind of sack covering his head. Recognisable by the missing fingers, though. There are pools of liquid on the floor around him. It looks like urine mixed with blood. More blood streaks his thighs, and yet more leaks out from under the sack.

But the truly sickening thing about this photo is that a uniformed NCR officer stands behind him, with one boot on his head, as though he were a trophy animal kill. The upper half of her face is obscured, blacked out by a swipe of the censor’s ink, but her grin of triumph remains, repulsive in its air of cheerfulness, hilarity even. Posing for the camera. Like it’s all a big game and she just scored.

Is it Cassandra Moore herself? I squint at it, but I can’t tell. I barely know her, she’s out on campaign most of the time. It probably isn’t her anyway; Colonels give the orders, they don’t get their hands dirty.

Then, accompanied by another unpleasant flip of my stomach, it occurs to me to wonder if it’s Major Gilles.


	24. A visit to solitary

When Tomasz knocks and sticks his head around the door again, I find I’ve been staring into space for an indeterminate time, pondering the implications of what I’ve learned. First the Bitter Springs cover-up, now this. I try to be honest about my faults, and naivety isn’t something I thought was one; but now I’m wondering what other wood I’m not seeing, for all the damned trees in the way.  
Depressing Realisation No. 1: The NCR are not even remotely “the good guys”. This inexorably leads to Depressing Realisation No. 2: There are no good guys. Every faction is just the embodiment of a dog, trying to eat other dogs while they try to eat us.  
Contemplation of which does a stellar job of reinforcing my secret feeling of pointlessness. Here we are, gluey conglomerations of stardust, play-acting in a soap opera, the only evidence for our importance being our violent belief that we are. We think, therefore we are. But we don’t seem to think hard enough.  
“Lori?” Tomasz says tentatively. “Y’ ok?”

Time for my character in the soap to have some more lines. At least I can make up my own lines. That’s something, I guess.  
“What’s up?” I respond to Tommy’s worried look with a light-hearted expression. Easy: tone of voice mild but interested, facial muscles relaxed, ghost of a smile. I have a doctorate in faking emotions, or lack of same, so even Tommy buys it. I see him relax a little.  
“I forgot to ask you, how did it go with Boone’s hearing this morning?”

Oh, that. Somehow I’d managed to forget. I fill Tommy in as best I can without admitting to blackmailing Arnette, since I don’t want to involve him in my dubiously-ethical and definitely-illegal scheme.  
“Do you think she’ll write him up as unfit?” Tommy asks sceptically. “He’s not really insane is he?”  
I shrug. “He’s suicidal to the point that he’ll lie to get himself executed, so he’s not a picture of mental health,” I say, feeling bad for being evasive with my hard-working assistant and protégé.

We talk a bit more, mostly about Dr Gannon. Then I catch up with my most pressing paperwork. When I think enough time has passed for Arnette to have written up her report, I head out, telling Tomasz that I’ll be back in time to go to the funeral with him.

Arnette is not in, but her office is unlocked. She has tidied it all up, spic and span. Magazines gone. No teacups anywhere. Her desk is clear, except for a thin brown manila folder. “CRAIG JOSEPH BOONE - d.o.b. 2255 - #7951376” it says in black ink on the cover. I open it. A single closely-typed page, but it says all the right things. _Delusional. Irrational. Increasing paranoia. History of severe clinical depression with suicidal thoughts._  
Doesn’t seem to have any code for “Treichler made me write this!” in it. I hold it up to the light. Nothing. So, Arnette came through. I’ll have to get her a bottle of thank-you whisky.

Tucking the report into my briefcase, I head home to have a quick shower and get changed. No shortage of sombre-toned, funeral-appropriate outfits in my closet. I choose a simple black cotton sleeveless dress, loose and long, match it with a wide-brimmed black straw hat, and walk back through the sweltering late-afternoon heat to pick up Tomasz.

The funeral is big. Numerous military big-wigs, many of Gilles’ fellow officers, and all of her direct underlings. Those last weren’t allowed to skip it, of course. General and Gigi Oliver are at the front, Gigi looking incredibly glamorous, even for her, in a satiny black gown and matching hat spilling over with red silk roses. Matching red lipstick, puckering to blow a kiss when she spots me.

Once everyone is in place, the speeches begin, lamenting the sudden and bloody death of a loyal comrade-in-arms. Tommy and I look around, me trying to notice anything out of the ordinary, Tommy presumably checking for people dry-crying. No one is crying at all, so that theory is a bust.

Halfway through, Tommy leans in to say something. I put my ear close, and he whispers, “Where’s the boyfriend?”  
I look at him for a second, confused by who he means, then clarity strikes. Of course! That’s what had been niggling at me, below the surface, ever since the case began. The autopsy found semen, indicating she’d had sex prior to being murdered. Tommy was right on point - where was the boyfriend?

We both scan the faces of everyone assembled, but no one is playing the role of grieving lover. The men all look sober, but not one of them actually looks upset.

So who did Gilles have sex with, the night before she was killed? I had assumed it was irrelevant, but now, with no one willing to own up, I wonder if that assumption was wrong. My brain can’t help but tiptoe in a very ugly direction. Did Vulpes have sex with her the night before? If he did, and his motive was revenge, it would surely have been a vicious rape. Then he let her live with it for a night, and killed her the next morning.

“I gotta get outta here,” I whisper back to Tommy. “You stick around and mingle after the event, see if anyone knows of a boyfriend or an occasional lover Gilles might have had.”  
“How’m I gonna ask that?” asks Tommy, dismay creasing his brow.  
“Discretion and bluntness in equal measure. You’ll manage. See you tomorrow.” I sidle diagonally backwards out of the throng, and once clear, scoot back to my office and grab the secret service interrogation report on Vulpes.

At the prison, they are not too keen on letting me see my client.  
“It’s out of hours,” says the ruddy-cheeked custody sergeant sourly.  
“I know and I’m so sorry. I just really, urgently need to see my client. I have something to discuss with him.”  
“Well then talk to him tomorrow morning.”  
“It’s more urgent than that.”  
He says nothing, just frowns at me with a face that plainly reads, _If I let her do this just once, will it become an annoyingly regular occurrence?_  
“I promise, I won’t be down here every evening,” I vow solemnly.  
“Ah, fuck. Alright then. But you can’t use the conference room. That wing is closed off for the night. You’ll have to see him in his cell.”  
“That’s fine. Thank you, I appreciate it.”  
“I can’t guarantee your safety down there.”  
“You don’t guarantee it in the conference room.”  
“True enough. Fontaine!” he suddenly barks at a young officer behind him. “Take Miss Tricksy here down to Cell 6-23.”  
“That’s Iso-level,” says Fontaine dubiously.  
“Yeah, well, that’s what the lady wants. On her head be it,” growls the sergeant, waving us away dismissively.  
Which reminds me that I’m still wearing my hat. I leave it on Fontaine’s desk.

Down, down, down, to one of the deepest subterranean levels of the building. The isolation level, just one man per cell, no natural light, but a disorienting bright orange glow from the bars on the cells. A strange thing, though. The glow seemed brilliant as I approached, but once inside and surrounded by it for a few seconds, my eyes adjust and it fades to nothing. The bars still look bright, but paler, and the walls look colourless.

Some of the cells are empty. In others, men lie on the floor or hop from foot to foot. I recognise some of them. They stare dully ahead, seeming not to be aware of their surroundings or me passing by. Every single one of them is naked.

“Why are they naked?” I whisper to Fontaine. Somehow talking in a normal voice doesn’t seem appropriate here.

He just shrugs. But why are they naked? They look cold, and forlorn. Is that part of the extra punishment meted out in isolation? Or helps to subdue them? It seems inhumane, whatever the reason.

Cell 6-23 is exactly like all the others except it contains a man unlike any other. When we arrive at his doorway he is sitting on the floor, arms huddled around his legs, head resting on his knees.

“Look alive, shitbird, you got a visitor,” Fontaine says, fiddling with the control panel till the orange bars of death abruptly vanish, leaving horizontal echoes across my field of vision.

It seems Inculta was asleep. His eyes flick open, and he stands up, looking as though he aches a little in doing so. He stands there, facing us, and I feel extremely awkward about going in.

“Can he have some clothes, please?” I ask, but Fontaine just shakes his head.  
“You got 20 minutes,” is all he says, and pushes me in, entering a code to reignite the bars behind me.

Twenty minutes suddenly sounds awfully long.


	25. Pissing people off

Vulpes struggles to regain his senses. He’d gone to sleep in a deliberately uncomfortable position so that he wouldn’t stay out too long. But the sleep had been deeper than he’d anticipated, leaving him blurry and disoriented. He stands still, and stares at her for a long time. She gazes back, keeping her eyes on his. Not that he’d mind her looking at his body. He’s never been ashamed of it.

Treichler speaks first, apologising for the intrusion, then sneezing.  
“No need to apologise. I’m always happy to see you. But do you often visit your clients in their cells?”  
She just makes a small shake of the head. He could have trained her as one of his spies, Vulpes reflects, admiring her unreadable face.  
Vulpes can see goose-bumps on her bare arms. “Warm outside?” he enquires.  
“Yeah. ‘choo!” She sneezes again.  
“Sit here,” he indicates the spot where he’d been sleeping, probably warmer by a few degrees than the rest of the room.  
She sits, taking her high-heeled shoes off and using the flowing cotton material of her dress to insulate her feet from the floor. Vulpes sits next to her, close enough to be touching lightly, so that she could share some of his body heat. She doesn’t shrink away, but makes no move to increase the contact either.

He eyes the folder in her hands. “You have something for me?”  
“I need to ask you some questions first.”  
“Mm?”  
“What day did you arrive in NCR City?”  
Odd question, but no reason to lie. “The afternoon of the day that we met. Why?”  
“Had you been in town at any point before that, in, say, the last month?”  
“No.”  
“And your friend Cato?”  
“He arrived with an escort of armed guards, as you know.”  
She looks sideways at him. Appraising. He gazes back, then slowly raises an eyebrow, gratified to see her smile a little.

Then the smile fades, and she looks down at the folder. “This is the report on your detention in Arizona.” She takes a long breath. “It’s grim reading, to say the least. I was unaware that anything quite this fucked-up occurred in NCR-controlled facilities. But I guess nothing would surprise me now.”  
“May I?” Vulpes reaches for it.  
She holds up a finger. “I have one more question for you first. I’m going to show you a photo. You might find it distressing to look at, and I apologise for that.” She plucks a photo from the folder and passes it to him. He’s bound and battered on a concrete floor, eyes swollen shut, a boot pressing down on his head. Treichler points at the owner of the boot, whose face has been censored. “Who is this?”

Vulpes stares at it, fascinated. Bizarre, to see himself like that. The experience of being tortured had been so visceral that he hadn’t ever stopped to wonder what he looked like from the outside.

Not that he hadn’t ever tortured anyone himself. He had, many times, in his own ways. To be on the receiving end, however, was a wholly unimaginable experience. Right up until you experienced it; then it became unforgettable.

“Her name was Simpson.” He points to her name-badge, illegibly small in the photo.  
“First name?”  
“I don’t know. K-something. Her badge said K. Simpson, they just called her Simpson.” Vulpes feels the rage welling up inside him and fights to keep his voice neutral. He will certainly kill her if he ever sees her again. But he isn’t here for her personally. He has bigger fish to fry.

Treichler seems satisfied by his answers. Relieved, even. She takes the photo back, tucks it into the folder and wordlessly passes him the rest of the material.

☣☣☣

I’m freezing my ass off, while Vulpes reads the report, incredibly slowly. Minutes pass, and he’s still on page two of 15. Is he just an amazingly slow reader? Illiterate, maybe? I follow his line of sight, thinking maybe I can help him out. He’s staring at a mostly-blacked-out line. Ah. He’s trying to work out what the redacted words are. 

So this is going to take a while.

“AchoOO! Sorry, excuse me.”  
Vulpes doesn’t look up, just leans a little closer to me, puts a warm arm around my waist, and keeps reading. Page 5, now.

“Have you seen the uncensored version of this?” he asks, on page 9.  
“No; and before you ask, no, I highly doubt I’d be able to access it.”

When he gets to the photos at the end, he surprises me. He just glances at each of the nasty ones as though they weren’t very interesting. The one of him in his battle armour, he lingers on a few seconds longer, with that look of faraway regret he had when I showed him his list of war-crimes. Then he puts that one away too.

I’ve established what I came for. He denies being in town when Major Gilles was murdered and possibly raped, and I have no real reason to doubt him. Unfortunately there isn’t much time to talk about anything else, because he’s taken so long to read the report the guard is going to be back any minute now.

“For what’s it’s worth, I’m sorry for what happened to you out there.”  
“You needn’t be. I’m quite alright.” Says the man with a missing thumb, missing tooth, and electrical burn scars on his testicles.  
“That’s the strange thing though. You do seem alright. Yet I have another client who was involved in committing an atrocity, under orders, and he’s completely messed-up about it.”  
“How long ago did it happen?”  
“Two years or so.”  
Vulpes looks interested. “Does he sleep?”  
“He says never.”  
“I have read of it, and seen it first-hand on occasion,” says Vulpes. “The phenomenon was fairly well-documented in the past. In the 20th century, after a war in Europe called the Great War, it was termed ‘shell-shock’. Men came back from trench warfare unable to bear noise, unable to relate to their families, unable to enjoy simple pleasures. Later the same century there was a war in Vietnam and the name for it changed to ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’. Must say I prefer ‘shell-shock’. Not all men get it, and I am glad to say I don’t. But it sounds like your other client certainly does.”  
“You sure know your wars.”  
“I was a student of war.”  
“Not anymore?”  
“I graduated. I gave my all. Now I’m thinking of retiring.” He gives his trademark mysterious smile.

There’s a silence, but it’s not an uncomfortable one.

After a while I vocalise what’s playing on my mind. “Aren’t you even angry about what they did to you?”  
“Yes. Very.”  
“You don’t sound angry at all.”  
“I practise self-control. Would you like another example?” Vulpes looks at me, and to my equal consternation and excitement there’s a little smoulder in his eyes.  
I raise my eyebrows queryingly, knowing it's probably a bad idea.  
He says carefully, “I am naked, and you are cold.” As the word _cold_ slides off his tongue, he gives a split-second glance down at my nipples, standing out firmly against my thin dress. Oh no. He may be keeping his self-control, and boasting about it, but I’m losing my grip on mine. I can’t help finally allowing myself to look hungrily at his penis, resting on his thigh just inches from me, not hard at all.  
“It’s not because it doesn’t work, or because I don’t find you enticing,” he says in a low voice, the smoulder audible now. “I assure you it does, and I do.”

Woah. This day of rule-breaking is about to pass a point of no return. I drag my eyes off his manhood, and try to get things back on an even keel. “Still. How can you tolerate being in here?”  
His voice is soft as a caress. “It’s easier with you.”

I successfully ruin the mood by sneezing again.

☣☣☣

Vulpes’ eyes suddenly change, flitting to the door, on full alert. After a few moments I hear it too. Footsteps coming our way.

"What time is it?," Vulpes whispers, in a voice that suggests that the answer is urgently important. But how could it be? He's in here for the the rest of his probably short life. I don't have a watch on, so can't answer.

A few seconds after that, when Fontaine, the guard who brought me down here, appears, I’m getting up, and Vulpes is already on the other side of the cell, leaning seemingly casually against the wall. Nice of him not to try to get me in trouble. He could so easily have.

“Time’s up,” Fontaine says, tapping in a security code on his side of the doorway.  
"What time is it?," I ask.  
Fontaine checks his watch. "Six forty-five".  
Vulpes says nothing, but when I glance back he waves me goodbye with one eyebrow.

As I follow Fontaine up the stairs, I vow never to visit a client in the cells again. Especially not one I am growing addicted to.

In the guard’s office, I pause to reclaim my hat. A new, less amiable custody sergeant has come on duty, who immediately takes the opportunity to tell me off for the same thing.  
“You know, you’re gonna start pissin’ a lot of people off,” he growls.  
“Meaning?”  
“Takin’ so much care of that war-criminal fucker. He shouldn’t have a lawyer at all. And there’s you, rushin’ around, tryin’ to help him out best you can. It ain’t right. I’m not gonna be lettin’ you in to see him after-hours, don’t fuckin' try it again.”  
“I won’t,” I answer sincerely.  
“You oughta watch your personal safety. No one ‘cept the scumbags you protect likes you too much for what you do, Treichler, and you’re makin’ outright enemies, now.”  
“Duly noted.”

His words echo in my head as I walk home, grateful for the warm evening air flowing over me. I’m making outright enemies. Including Boone. It’s true. Despite my efforts, I’ve done a fail-job of representing Boone so far. Today all I got him was a 24-hour reprieve. Tomorrow I’ve got to come up with another reason to keep him alive.


	26. Sophie the Hubologist, and the mysterious Rangers

The streets are all but deserted as I wander away from the prison. My hands spin my wide-brimmed hat and catch it as I walk, my mind somewhere else, processing the day’s events, thinking about everything and nothing.

Two blocks from my building, I’m accosted and expertly and ominously flanked by two people I don’t know. After the prison guard’s warning, it gives me a fright, but they turn out to be Hubologists. A young man and woman, both clean cut and way too earnest.  
“You must Align!” the boy exclaims.  
“You must Self-Examine!” the girl echoes.  
The boy looks at me with pity in his eyes. “You cannot be uplifted to Quetzel while you are Rim Meat,” he shakes his head as though I have been told this a hundred times before and I just won’t listen. Which, come to think of it...  
The girl comes very close and weaves her hands slowly through the air around me. “You are crawling with Neurodynes,” she says sorrowfully.

Grr. I was having a fine, thoughtful evening walk, and have to get interrupted by this.  
Time to fight fire with fire. “Did you know that Neurodynes are catching? Yup, the Hub said so himself. You could get Neurodynes just by standing so close to me,” I nod, matching their earnestness. “Whoops! You have one!” I point at the air an inch above the girl’s head.  
Amazingly, it works. The boy goes very wide-eyed. “Sophie! You do! It’s right there!” Backing away from both of us.  
Sophie looks stunned for a second, then screams “OPPRESSIVE!” pointing at me.  
“Ok, I gotta go,” I say, walking on. The boy is already hotfooting it.  
“OPPRESSIVE!” yells Sophie again. “Hey Peteybird wait up! I don’t have Neurodynes! She’s just trying to Oppress! She’s an Unscannable!”  
I walk on.  
Peteybird’s voice drifts on the breeze behind me. “You must Align, Sophie. You are polluted now.”

***

Even though they were harmless, residual adrenaline from the fright they gave me flows in my blood. I take the stairs to my apartment two at a time. The evening paper is lying on my doorstep, folded so I only see the bottom half. I lock the door behind me, double-check it’s locked, then open the paper on my way to the bathroom.  
**CRAIG BOONE:**  
“I’M GUILTY!” covers the top half of the front page.  
_“Sergeant Craig Boone today sensationally CONFESSED in open court to the COLD BLOODED MURDER of Major Brenda Gilles, while his own lawyer looked on in dismay.”_  
What the...? Oh no.  
_“FIRING SQUAD – the only possible sentence in murder of a commanding officer cases, according to legal expert Kevin McGill.  
Craig Boone could face EXECUTION in as little as two days, if precedents set in previous cases are followed._

I read the whole article, but nowhere does it mention that Boone’s plea was not formally entered. Lying by omission – a favourite trick of newsmen since print first hit page. Anyone who reads this will think that Boone’s trial is over.

I put the paper aside and start to wash my hands and face, realising as I do that I need to go see Marlene Boone. She’d be shattered if she read this story.

It’s been a long and difficult day, and having to go out now because these nitwit newshounds at the Bugle can’t just tell a story straight, have to put a histrionic twist on it and leave out less dramatic, more relevant facts, is a pain. But it’s got to be done.

As I change into walking clothes, the warning that the custody sergeant gave me flashes into my mind again. I’m making enemies, he claimed. I ponder putting something I could use as a weapon in my bag; then decide it’s a stupid idea and head out again.

☣☣☣

By the time I get to Marlene Boone’s, I’m puffing slightly. Without realising it I had been walking at a pace just short of a run. The heat of the day is gone, replaced by twilight.

Marlene wordlessly invites me in. I can tell by the puffiness to her eyes that she’s read the story. She brings me into the kitchen, and pulls out a chair at the table. The paper is right in front of me, neatly folded. Back to front, so Boone’s story isn’t visible, instead it’s Penelope Polecat’s column. While Marlene boils some water, I cast my eye over Polecat’s column.

Except it isn’t the Social Diary – it’s apparently “Penelope Polecat’s Astral Guide”. Huh, this is new. I skip down to my star sign.  
_Beware, Virgo! Mars is passing through your quarter and with it will come a mysterious Scorpio, charming and subtle, but be on your guard, as the sting is lethal. Do not close your eyes to things that slither and scuttle in the night._

Another warning. While I’m wondering if I’m right about what it means, and hoping it’s not, and if it’s crazily egocentric of me to even think that it’s meant for me, Marlene puts a cup of something hot and herbal-smelling in front of me and finally speaks. “I need you to tell me how I can convince them it was my doing.”  
“You already tried that, Marlene, and it didn’t take.”  
“I could tell them something only the murderer would know.”  
“Like what?”  
“That’s what I need you to tell me.”  
“Bad idea.”  
“I’ve got to try. They are going to kill my boy.” Tears appear at the corners of her eyes.  
“Marlene, that’s why I came to talk to you. The paper is wrong, he has not been convicted or sentenced.” I bite the word “yet” off the end of the sentence.  
“He didn’t..? But it says he confessed in open court?” Marlene breathes.  
“He tried to,” I admit, “but they didn’t accept his plea. I’m trying to get him declared unfit to plead. That way I can get him out of the witness box and defend him using the evidence, whether he likes it or not.”  
Marlene looks confused.  
“Ignore this article, it’s all exaggeration,” I say, pushing the _Bugle_ away. “Tomorrow there’ll be another hearing, and they’ll decide if he can enter a plea or not. I’ve obtained a report saying that he should not. If they agree, I’m pretty sure I can successfully defend him. And if they do let him enter a plea, well, chances are he won’t try to help himself, but we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. There are still things that can be done.”  
“Why does he want.. to die?” Marlene stares at the paper, voice barely audible now.

This is agonizing. I’m not cut out to play grief counsellor, nor psychologist. And I can’t even feel sorry for myself having to deal with this situation, because everyone else is in more agony than me.

I take a deep breath, and then sip my drink, to give myself time to think of something, anything, worth saying. It’s strange tasting, some kind of leaf tea. I abstractedly hope she’s not trying to poison me.

Should I tell her about Bitter Springs? No. How could that possibly make her feel better.

“I think he’s just depressed. He lost a baby, in Arizona,” I say. That can do anyone’s head in. I should know. “He needs therapy, and time. I’ve got to go, Marlene. Thank you for the tea.” I get up and tuck my chair back into the table.

“Lost a baby?” Marlene looks up at me with big, terrified eyes. Oh hell, I forgot that a son was taken from her in unexplained circumstances, many years ago. Boone had warned me never to mention it.  
“Not lost, I mean an unborn baby. The mother died,” I clarify. Probably not making it any better. I need to get out of here.

It’s now dark outside. I walk back up Westin Road towards town, chastising myself all the way. That visit was supposed to make Mrs Boone feel better, not worse. But I left her in tears.

At home, I flop down in bed, exhausted, but sleep does not come for a long time.

☣☣☣

I wake in the middle of the night from a dream about scorpions. There is a greenish light shining through my bedroom doorway, from the living room. 

I listen but there’s no sound. Getting out of bed, I walk in singlet and knickers towards the light, and go through the door.

Simultaneously two things happen. I see someone in full ranger combat armour reclining on my sofa, and someone else behind me gently presses a leather-gloved hand over my mouth, little finger firmly hooked under my jaw to keep my mouth closed. Another arm curls around my torso, holding me tightly. I’m so utterly surprised by this tableaux that I don’t even consider struggling, I just freeze, to see what will unfold.

The green light is coming from a projector device worn on the sleeve of the ranger on the sofa, which I recognise as a PipBoy, a rare and valuable piece of Vault tech. Like a little computer on the arm. The reclining ranger casually pressed a setting on the PipBoy, and the green glow becomes a bright projection on the wall. Words.

_What a good lawyer you are._

The sofa ranger’s helmeted head turns to look at the words, then at me, tilting sideways very slightly. The words change.

_Not tomorrow._

The ranger looks at me, head shaking slowly.

_Tomorrow you must fail, and leave him to his fate._

The ranger reaches out a gloved hand and points two fingers shaped like a gun at me.

_Win and you will lose your life. Lose and you will live.”_

The ranger holding me in a headlock tightens his grip.

_Choose well. ___

__The gun-fingers fire, right at my face, and the projection abruptly stops, the room falling back into a dim green glow._ _

__I feel like they should magically disappear in a puff of smoke and I should wake up and shake this bad dream off, but they’re still there, and this is actually happening._ _

__Headlock does some kind of ninja move on me and I find myself transitioned from standing up to flat on my face on the floor in less than a second, bruises forming at the front and back of my head. They are calmly walking out the door, closing it behind them. PipBoy was shorter than Headlock. That’s about the full extent of my ability to identify them._ _

__I get up, thinking about whether I should report this to the police, but there seems little point. A shorter one and a tall one. Both very comfortable in the black armour. The tall one is good at martial arts. As far as I can see they didn’t leave anything behind, and they never even spoke._ _

__Except they did speak. Win to lose; lose to win. I have three clients in court tomorrow. Craig Boone, Vulpes Inculta, and the corporal who was stealing from the armoury to pay for his sister’s drug habit._ _


	27. An escape

TUESDAY

6:12 a.m., Tuesday May 1st, 2283

I head in to the office early. 

After last night’s waking nightmare I didn’t sleep too well. I’ve got a headache and a sore area on the back of my head where I got sapped, and there’s a bruised swelling on my left eyebrow and cheekbone from where I hit the floor, so I downed one of Dr Gannon’s super-pills at around 5am. Now, floating along the street in the dawn light, everything looks golden and beautiful. 

There are a lot of soldiers on the streets, some standing on corners watching the streets, some moving fast in 4-man groups. Something going on. Doesn’t seem important to me. I see a passing MP I vaguely recognise and ask her what’s happening, but she just glances at me and moves on. Not even a hello.

I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do in preparation for this morning’s hearings, and in this mildly trippy state it’s going to be slower work than usual, so I move on too. 

My office is cool and quiet. I sit at my vast desk and breathe deeply, soaking in the stillness before the day’s chaos begins. The rangers warned me not to bother today. They weren’t specific about who not to bother with though, so I guess that means I have a choice - either to let all three defendants dangle, or to jump out of the frying pan.

Fire it is. Headlock and PipBoy can bite me. They may have ninja moves, but I can neutralise them with Dr Gannon’s pills. Which just possibly are involved in the forming of this decision. But whatever - once I haven’t done what they want, they’ll probably, hopefully, lose interest in me anyway.

I pull out the files, pick up a pen and get started.

Boone’s paperwork is actually pretty quick to handle, as I already have it half done and I knew exactly what I’m going to say, including a few different iterations depending on what the judges determine about the psych report. 

The young corporal, not so easy, but I’ve had clients like him before, so I know where I’m going with that too. I write it all out in bullet-point form. Another effort to keep the firing squad playing pool, or marching up and down, or whatever they do when not saving the city the cost of supporting failed soldiers. The kid’s name is Nate Miller. I pause a moment to wonder about his sister. He wouldn’t give her name, but I could find out easily enough. It would be interesting to hear what she had to say. Would she show up in court to support him? Unlikely. That would require some level of having her shit together, which didn’t gel with what I knew so far about her.

Thinking about relative levels of having-one’s-shit-together makes me think about Vulpes. You couldn’t meet someone who came across more like he had his shit together. If I used just one word to describe his vibe it would be _precision_. 

Him walking into prison doesn’t gel either. The smart money says he’s planning something. A riot, like the one he used to escape in Arizona, maybe. Taking control of the prison and using it as a base of operations. Letting loose all the convicts to wreak havoc on the city. He could have taken me hostage last night but didn’t, which means that whatever he’s planning he doesn’t need to rely on random good luck.

Halfway through that thought, Tomasz comes rushing in without knocking, eyes bright. It’s now 8:22am, and he’s got news.

I hate being interrupted. Seeing my face, he knocks backwards on the inside of the door behind him.  
“Sorry Lori but have you heard?” he says breathlessly.  
“What,” I respond, thinking _please let it not be another murder_.  
It’s not. Tommy’s words tumble out. “There was a jailbreak last night! Inculta and Hostilius have escaped!”  
I’m stunned for a second, then ask, “Riot?”  
“No. Powercut.” Tomasz makes a ‘how-ridiculous-is-that?’ gesture.  
“They have back-up generators,” I start to say, but then remember the momentary powercut that happened when I was in conference with Boone last week. It only lasted about 20 or 25 seconds, but the back-up generators did not come on and the electronic lock was briefly deactivated. I thought it was random at the time. Now I wonder if it was a trial run.  
“Who else escaped?” I ask.  
“Just those two, so far as I heard. They beat up three guards on the way out. One of ‘em’s critical. The whole town is on alert. All the gates on lockdown, no one in or out of the base except authorised personnel, no one in or out of town at all. No traders, caravans, nothing. No one can move without being seen. They’ll be caught for sure.”  
“Unless they’re already out of town.”  
Tomasz nods.

Last time I saw Cato he didn’t look in any condition to beat up anyone. That was only in a photo, admittedly. But he looked half-dead, and that was in last Friday morning’s paper, so presumably taken on Thursday. I doubt even the toughest man could progress from half-dead to beating up prison guards in only five days. More likely, Vulpes administered the beatdowns while dragging Cato out.

Which leads me to another thought. “How come no one else escaped?”  
“They’re saying it happened at 4am so maybe most prisoners were asleep.”  
“Makes sense. But if the back-up generators didn’t come on, it must have been pitch black in there. So then the question becomes how did those two find their way out?”  
“Torch?” suggests Tomasz.  
“Pretty sure they don’t issue prisoners with torches. Hell, in isolation they don’t even issue them with clothes.”  
Tommy’s jaw drops. “What?”  
“Yeah.”  
He stares at me, nose wrinkled. “That’s... so creepy.”  
“Yes it is. Did they steal the guard’s uniforms?”  
“Not that I heard.”  
“Vulpes will be needing to find something to put on, then.” I almost blush, and look down at my stack of case notes instead. “I wonder if the courthouse going to open.”  
“Want me to run down and see?” Tomasz asks.  
I accept the offer, and he dashes off. 

Leaving me staring at nothing. No need to prepare for Vulpes’ hearing, now. Dozens of thoughts crowd my mind.  
Did he know the powercut would happen?  
Did he orchestrate it somehow?  
Has he left town, or is he hiding in the city somewhere? 

The first answer must be yes. The second, probably yes, possibly with third party assistance. Escaping in pitch blackness would mean having memorised in advance the exact layout of the building, then moving at high speed from way down in iso-level, up via Cato’s cell to the outside door. One shot only, no second chances. _Precision._

As for the third question, I hope he’s outside the city and heading far, far away, though it makes my heart sag a little. If he’s hiding in town and they find him, I very much doubt he’d come willingly this time, and the MPs would be equally unlikely to object to an on-the-spot extra-judicial execution. No one has ever escaped from inside that prison before. A weakness has been revealed. To merely arrest him again would show even more weakness. No, an immediate bullet to the brain and a lifeless body paraded through the streets would be my prediction if they so much as catch a glimpse of him. 

Let him be gone, even if it means I never see him again, never get kissed so sweetly again.

Tommy returns, and tells me that the Court is open for business as usual. It’s now just before 9am. My first hearing, for Boone, is at 10am. Assuming Boone isn’t awol too. Tommy makes coffee for us both and brings his cup to my office to drink in company.  
We talk about the escaped men and how they might have achieved it for a while, then I remember to ask him about the funeral last night.  
“Find the boyfriend?” I ask him.  
“No. No boyfriend, no one knew anything about a lover, but one of the guys who trained cadets with her did say something interesting. He reckoned she seemed different lately. Like she had something going on. Less interested in work, and more attentive to her personal appearance.”  
“Hmm.”  
“Yeah.”  
“He put forward any theory?”  
“No, just that he thought she was in the market, you know, looking to attract someone.”  
“Which he thought wasn’t like her? Though she’s always been single?”  
“Correct. ‘Different lately’, were the words he used.”  
“He elaborate on ‘lately’?”  
“I did ask, and no, he just went like this,” Tommy says, mimicking a careless shrug.  
I ponder the new information. No known lover, but something going on. A secret lover? Not a rape after all? Unconnected, then, to the killing? Or perhaps a competition with a rival that turned deadly? No way of knowing, unless we can find and talk to the hypothetical paramour. Which means I need to search her room for clues. 

No time for that now, though. I need to go present a fake psych-report to the court.

Outside, the soldiers are still swarming around the streets, and I have to weave my way around clusters of them to get to the courthouse. Eyes are alert and flickering in every direction. Fingers are held close to triggers.

Kevin McGill is in the foyer of the court, talking to Tibbett, the editor from the _Bugle_. From a distance he looks excited. They both do.  
“Hello, Lori!” Kevin hails me as I approach. “Have you heard the news?”  
“Yeah, the Legion boys escaped,” I answer.  
“That too. But the other news!” Both men are looking at me in a funny way. Too bright-eyed. Up close, McGill looks cheerful, as always. But Tibbet looks frightened.  
“What...” I say unenthusiastically, some instinct making me think I really don’t want to hear it.  
“Craig Boone is a free man! The real murderer has confessed!”  
My eyes narrow to slits. “Marlene Boone is innocent and you know it.”  
The two men exchange glances. “Not Marlene,” Kevin says. “The killer is a medic from Arizona named Arcade Gannon.”


	28. Ranger O'Riordan, and a request from the General

Dr Gannon, it transpires, went to the Military Police in the early hours of this morning, confessed to the crime, and handed over an old but immaculately-maintained “Plasma Defender” energy pistol fitted with a military grade scope and a sheath stabilizer. 

The MPs didn’t believe him. Dr Gannon then gave a coherent and plausible account of events. He was out drinking with Craig Boone and told Boone of his murder plan. Boone tried to talk him out of it. He wouldn’t be dissuaded, so Boone tried to physically stop him. Dr Gannon knocked out and drugged Boone, to prevent interference. 

The MPs were still sceptical. Dr Gannon then named witnesses who would be able to testify that he was having an intense and quietly argumentative conversation with Boone in the officer’s bar the night before the murder, and other witnesses who could say that the doctor was seen loitering near the fence the next morning, while Boone’s semi-unconscious form was being roused, and others who could confirm that Gannon was acting peculiarly at work the next day. He refused to give any reasons for committing the murder, saying it was personal.

The MPs had one remaining doubt, but it was the biggest one. Craig Boone was a professional marksman. Dr Gannon was just a four-eyed lab-coated test-tube gazer. They decided to “test” the good doctor by submitting him to a shooting range challenge, using his plasma defender. The test subject proceeded to shoot three near-bullseyes on a moving target at 60, 70 and 80 yards, and, once they got over their astonishment, they arrested him on the spot.

McGill finishes off by saying cheerfully to the Bugle’s editor, “That’ll make a great story for your front page, eh, Tibbet?”  
Tibbet makes a half-hearted nod.  
I look back at McGill. “You’re representing him?”  
“Yep. But I haven’t seen him yet. The state of the prison after the breakout, they’re on red alert over there.”  
I keep noticing Tibbett’s face. He looks scared, eyes lowered and wide, as though racking his brain for a way to stop this from happening.  
“Feeling guilty?” I ask him. Cruel maybe, but he knows exactly what I am referring to.  
Tibbett shakes his head slightly, but it’s a gesture of regret, of failure, not of denial.  
“Not to salt the wound,” I continue, “but I had to visit Boone’s mother last night. The front page was sitting right there on her kitchen table. Imagine how she felt.”  
Tibbett shakes his head again.  
“And now you’ve caused an innocent man to confess, just to save the life of another innocent man.”  
Tibbett looks up at that. “How do you know Boone is innocent? He looked guilty as hell to me,” he protests, but it’s weak and he knows it.

People are moving around us into the court, getting a too close to talk more. But I need to know one thing.  
Moving close to McGill, I lower my voice to just above a whisper. “You’re not going to let the doctor plead guilty are you?”  
“Hard not to, Lori.” McGill replies, with a what-can-you-do shrug.

So here we are. The situation has repeated and reversed. My client home free, thanks to another innocent man trying to go down for the same murder, but now with a lawyer who’s happy to let fate take its course.

And now there’s a weapon, and no witness to say he was drugged and couldn’t have done it.

Arcade Gannon is in even deeper shit than Craig Boone was.

☣☣☣

The crowds part and there’s a ranger standing over on the far side of the foyer, leaning against the wall. No helmet or facemask on. Tall, neatly-trimmed gingery-blond beard, ordinary sort of face, tough like all rangers are. All this drama has made me forget to look for people who might be watching me to prevent me from attending court this morning, but seeing him, I feel a spike of fear which almost instantly devolves into stubbornness. He doesn’t seem to be paying me any particular attention, but maybe he’s already called it in while I was talking to McGill and Tibbett.

There’s sometimes merit in taking bulls by horns. I say see-ya to McGill and walk directly over to the ranger. He ignores me till I’m a few yards away, then turns to look at me as I close the gap.  
“Yes ma’am?” he asks to my inquisitive glare.  
“D’you know my name?” I ask him, just to start the conversation.  
“Yes ma’am. Lieutenant Lori Treichler. The woman who wore it better,” he replies with a slow smile. The kind of smile that lights a face right up and makes its owner impossible to completely dislike. Damn.  
“What’s your name?” I ask.  
“O’Riordan.”  
“Were you sent here to watch for me, O’Riordan?”  
The ranger looks genuinely confused. “Why would I be sent to watch for you? You’re a lawyer, this is a court, aren’t you here every day?”  
“Well, that’s why I’m here, but why are you here?” I persist, but I’m starting to feel foolish. Not paranoid, because I’m pretty sure last night really did happen, but this guy doesn’t seem to be in on it.  
“I’m here to talk to the prosecutor. I’m a witness in a trial that’s coming up.”  
“Oh.”  
“There something wrong?” he asks, gently, like I might be mentally ill.  
Where to start. “So many things,” I say, “but nothing you can help me with.”  
“You sure about that?” O’Riordan asks, with a flick of the eyebrows. “A ranger can help with just about any problem. The bigger, the better.”  
“ _CASE OF NATHANIEL MILLER, COURTROOM TWO,_ ” the crackling tannoy blares.  
“What if my problem is rangers?” I posit.  
He thinks I’m flirting, and chuckles, all warmth again. I smile too, wave goodbye, and head into court.

☣☣☣

Corporal Nate Miller’s hearing is to set the trial date, draft the witness list and a few other administrative matters. He’s brought up into the witness box from the trapdoor below, looking very small between the guards. He has a look on his face I’ve seen countless times. A military kid, trained not to be afraid in the face of mortal enemies, scared shitless when confronted by the business end of his own faction.

Turns out Ranger O’Riordan is one of the witnesses against him. He was the one who caught the corporal smuggling a sackful of plastic explosive out of the armoury, and hung grimly onto the struggling youth until the MPs got there to take him into custody. The other witnesses are the two MPs who arrested him and recovered the loot, and another MP who at the time was investigating previous similar thefts and who had a snitch who’d provided a description of the soldier who was touting himself on the black market as a hireable thief. The description matched, broadly, but the snitch had made herself scarce after his arrest and wouldn’t be a witness unless she could be found before the trial.

I submitted that the snitch’s testimony was pure hearsay and had to be kept out unless and until she testified in person. The judge hesitated only a second before agreeing. The hearsay rules are pretty strict, and even if they weren’t, the snitch’s description could have fit a number of people. Besides, my client’s problem is not the snitch. 

His problem is the amount he was caught red-handed with. The prosecutor tells the court it was enough to blow up a whole building “like this one” with, gesturing at the courthouse around us. At those words the judge shifts in his seat and looks distinctly uneasy. With two infamous terrorists roaming at large in our city this very morning, mention of exploding buildings goes down exactly as badly as the prosecutor knows it will.

“Trial is set for two weeks from today; in the meantime the defendant is to be kept under lock and key. And I do mean LOCK,” the judge says, looking meaningfully at the two prison guards who flank my client. “If your electronic locks are faulty, then I suggest you use old-fashioned steel,” he adds, over-pronouncing each word, just in case his meaning wasn’t plain enough already.

We all stand as the judge walks out through the door behind his bench that leads to his chambers. When it closes behind him, I move over to my client as fast as I can, to have a word with him before he’s taken away again.  
I lean close like I’m going to sniff him. “Who were you selling to?” I whisper right in his ear.  
He looks sideways at me, his face tormented. “I can’t tell you,” he whispers back.  
“Just give me one name,” I breathe into his ear, not even moving my lips so the guards can’t pick up my words. I tilt my head so he can reply the same way, into my ear.  
Nate pauses, then whispers, his fear more audible than his words, “It was one of the guys who was using my sister. I can’t tell you. He’ll kill her.”

I watch him get pulled away and down into the trapdoor into the floor, to the tunnel that leads back to the prison.  
His words from our interview yesterday morning echo in my ears. “Higher-ups.” His buyer was a male, in the army, someone of rank, someone who didn’t want to run any risk of getting caught himself.

There are no more hearings, and everyone has left the foyer of the court except the front desk staff and one man leaning against the wall by the front door, clearly waiting for me. Ranger O’Riordan.  
“Miss Treichler, ma’am. I suppose it would be inappropriate for a witness to take a lawyer out for a drink,” he says as I reach him.  
“Only if there are currently involved in the same case. And particularly if they are on opposing sides,” I reply.  
He shakes his head. “Ah, that’s too bad.” Giving me that warm, flirty smile again.  
“O’Riordan... what’s your first name?”  
“Sean.”  
“Sean, listen. Two rangers broke into my apartment last night and threatened me.” Hmm. It does sound crazy when I say it out loud.  
“Were you asleep, and they woke you up?”  
“Yes.”  
O’Riordan shakes his head, not unkindly. “No they didn’t. You were asleep, and it was a dream.”  
“It wasn’t a dream.”  
“Dreams can be lucid. You feel like you’re awake.”  
“I know that, and I’m certain it was no dream. They were there. They didn’t speak, they used a kind of projector, strapped to one of them’s wrist. Can you explain anything about that to me?”  
The ranger looks surprised. “Projector?” he asks.  
“Yeah, a bright green light, from an electronic device that had a little screen, also green.”  
“That’d be a PipBoy,” says O’Riordan. “VaultTec. Don’t see those too often nowadays.”  
“Do you know anyone who’s got one?"  
His wide brow furrows. “Not anyone who’d break into your room at night and use one to threaten you with. What was the threat?”  
“They told me not to come to court today.”  
“Ah,” says O’Riordan as if he understands everything.  
I give him the ‘spill-it’ look. Soon accompanied by the ‘I-don’t-have-all-day’ gesture.  
“So that’s why you fixed in on me, so intense, when you saw me this morning,” he explains. “I thought you just liked me for myself.” He shrugs playfully, then his expression gets more serious. “Ma’am, rangers don’t go around in pairs. We work alone. And we don’t go into lady lawyers’ houses at night and tell them not to go to work. It’s not in our remit to do shit like that, and if our commanders wanted to, pretty sure they’d just go straight to the judge.”  
“When you put it like that…” I concede.  
“It was a dream.”  
“It wasn’t a dream. But it does sound like they were working outside their remit. A little side action. Or maybe…”  
“They weren’t rangers,” O’Riordan finishes my thought. 

While I’m thinking about whether this epiphany makes me feel better, and deciding no, it’s actually worse, I hear the courtroom door open and close behind me, and the prosecutor comes up to us, a large untidy bundle of paperwork in one hand, shaking O’Riordan’s hand with the other.

“Shall we talk over there?” the prosecutor asks him, indicating with his head some bench seats at the far end of the lobby, and ignoring me.

O’Riordan gives me a goodbye-face and walks away with the prosecutor.

On the streets outside it’s hot and chaotic. Soldiers swarming everywhere like fire ants, going in and out of buildings, stopping all adult male passers-by. They won’t stop until they catch their prey. Across the road from the courthouse, I can see a sniper and his spotter on the roof of the building opposite. Looking down the road, I see more, at least one team on roofs in every block. Shit. _Let him be gone, out of town and far away_ , I silently pray.

Instead of going back to my office, I make my way to the military complex, and i.d. myself through the gates. The sergeant on the gate warns me that I can enter the complex but that I won’t be allowed into the prison to see any clients today. The prison is still in full lockdown until they work out what’s wrong with the electrical and/or computer systems. They don’t even know which.

That’s not going to be a problem, as I’m not here to see a client. I’m here to rifle though a dead soldier’s belongings.

It takes a bit of wandering around in the dormitory area before a private sweeping out the hallway helps me locate Gilles’ room. Being a major, Gilles had a smallish room all to herself, on the top floor. It’s not locked. The private follows me curiously, and stands in the doorway watching curiously as I open cupboards and flick through training manuals.  
“Ma’am, if I may ask, what are you looking for?”  
“Did you know Major Gilles?” I ask in return.  
“Not especially well, but everyone knew her, she trained recruits.”  
“She have a boyfriend?”  
“Not as I ever heard.”  
I peek under the mattress. Nothing there. “I’m looking for clues to why she was murdered. You got any ideas?”  
“Well…” the private says uncertainly, “I dunno, but you probably won’t find any here, this room’s already been pretty thoroughly checked.”  
“Oh. By MPs? Did they take anything away, do you know?”  
“The MPs didn’t take anything away, but Mrs O did.”  
“Mrs O? Gigi Oliver? When did this happen?”  
“Yes ma’am. A while back. Maybe the same morning after it happened.”  
“That’s strange isn’t it? What was she doing in here? And what did she take?”  
The private shrugs. “Well, it’s not that strange, she works in Admin, and so she helped to clear out some of Major Gilles’ personal stuff. This room is going to be reallocated soon.”  
“Oh. Does she normally do that? Clear out murdered officer’s rooms?”  
“Officers don’t normally get murdered.”  
“Come on, you know what I mean. Is that part of her job?”  
“I don’t know. Yeah, Admin does do all that kind of stuff. Allocate rooms, and whatnot. So, yeah. I guess.”

I take one last look around the room and leave. It doesn’t look ready to be reallocated yet. Still some spare uniforms hanging up, and some books lying around.

I wonder what Gigi Oliver took away, and if she’d let me see it. If yes, then it can’t be anything significant, as Gigi’s not exactly slow. She would have put two and two together, and come forward already. If no… then it does make me wonder.

☣☣☣

On the way back to my office, I pick up a six-pack of cold sarsaparilla at an ice stand to take back to the fridge at work. The early afternoon heat is sweltering today. When I get back into my office Tommy is lying spread-eagled on his back on the floor, perfectly still.  
“Oh hi Lori. Not dead, just trying to keep cool,” he says, scrambling up. I share a drink with him, catch him up on the events in court, not mentioning my encounter with Ranger O’Riordan, and once we run out of things to say I give him the rest of the day off. 

☣☣☣

It’s about half an hour after Tommy leaves, and I’m leaning back in my chair with my feet up on the desk, staring at the ceiling, just thinking about whether or not it would be wise to pay Mrs Oliver a visit, and whether or not I should have another drink first, and whether or not I should top it up with some whiskey, when there’s a loud knock on the door and it opens without waiting for an answer.

General Oliver himself steps into the room. He’s in full dress uniform, medals dangling. Two uniformed tough-guys step in after him, and all three stare at me for a moment, then General Oliver turns and mutter something to the men about waiting for him outside, and the two tough-guys exit the room, leaving the door open behind them. I hear the street door close a few seconds later.

General Oliver closes my office door himself, and comes over and sits in the chair across my desk from me. Supposedly my “client” chair, although not too many clients come to my offices. General Oliver has certainly never come here before.

“Lieutenant Treichler,” he says heavily.  
I wait. He doesn’t go on. “Something on your mind, General?” I ask.  
He frowns, but still doesn’t say anything.  
“Can I offer you a cold drink? I’m going to have one.”  
He nods, not particularly enthusiastically.  
Coming back with two small brown bottles, I pass one to him. He waits for a glass, then when he sees he isn’t going to get one, sniffs the bottle then takes a swig from it.  
“Lieutenant,” he starts again. “I have a request. And before I tell you what it is, I want you to know that it is 100% confidential. As in, you breathe a word of it to anyone, even your teddy bear, and I will be disappointed”. Something about the way he pronounces _be disappointed_ makes it sound like _tear you up with my bare hands_.  
“Understood,” I nod.  
“And, before I tell you what it is, I want you to know that I am coming to you because I believe that you are the only person I can trust with this.”  
Interesting. “Not even your own men, General?”  
“I trust them with military secrets. This is something else. Something very personal. Very delicate. I know from observing your career that you are someone who can keep a secret even under pressure. And I know you understand the meaning of discretion."

I nod.  
"Do I have your word, on your honour, Lieutenant, that you will keep this in absolute confidence? Irrespective of whether you decide to assist me or not?”

It’s kind of flattering to think the general has been observing my career. Or maybe it’s disturbing. Either way, I have to answer carefully.  
“Is what you wish to ask of me going to conflict with my obligations to the court?” I ask. “Professional integrity, and duty to justice?”  
He shakes his head. “Categorically not. There is no connection with your professional duties.”  
“Then you have my word, General.”  
Oliver breathes in and out slowly before he begins to speak again. “I want you to follow my wife. Surreptitiously, of course. She must not become aware that you are following her, that is crucial. I want you to keep track of everywhere she goes, and everyone she sees, and report privately to me.”  
This is a little stunning. I lean back in my chair again. Maybe a little too casually, in the company of a general, but I feel we’re on different terms now. “So... affair? Espionage? Or something else?” I ask.  
“Affair,” Oliver says quietly, and his voice is laced with a faint mist of sadness.  
“Who with?”  
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”  
I gaze over the general's head at the bookshelves on my far wall, thinking about it. Seems like none of my business, to me. Plus sneaking about, spying on someone. Stalking, basically. Not my thing.  
“You will be remunerated, of course,” the General says.  
This brings me back down to earth. “I don’t want money,” I say slowly, thinking fast. “But there is something you could do for me in return.”  
“Name it.”  
“Three things, in fact.”  
“You’re pushing your luck, Lieutenant.”  
“Number one, a doctor named Arcade Gannon is currently being held on remand awaiting trial for the murder of Major Gilles. He confessed but I’m certain it's a false confession -”  
“I can’t get him off that charge,” the General interrupts.  
“No, I just want him released on bail pending trial. He won’t run, I don’t think. After all, he turned himself in.”  
“Done.”  
“Two, my client Vulpes Inculta escaped last night, as no doubt you've been informed. I'd like him brought in alive. Strict orders to the men not to shoot.”  
“No. Next.”  
“Why no?”  
“Next,” repeats the General in a voice that's quiet but very brittle. No traction there.  
“Number three, which I guess now is two, I have three juvenile clients convicted on desertion charges, who got maximum sentences. It’s currently under appeal. I would very much like to see their maximum sentences replaced with minimum ones.”  
The general gives me an appraising look. “Doesn’t this request conflict with what you called your 'obligations to the court'?” he asks sardonically.  
“A little, in a way,” I agree. “But it’s for the right reasons. These are just kids we’re talking about.”  
“I don’t want any of my soldiers, including the ‘kids’, getting the idea that desertion is an option.”  
“The minimum sentence is still very long, General. I don’t think anyone will be inspired.”  
“Hmm. Very well, we have a deal.”  
“We do indeed. When do you want me to start?”  
“Today.”

☣☣☣

Half an hour after that, a hand makes a soft, distinctive knock at a door, then unlocks it and enters a quiet, dark room, where two men rest, one lying down asleep, one sitting up awake.

“Lee Oliver just visited Tricky Treichler’s office,” Picus says in a voice barely above a whisper. There is no response. He takes a pair of black plastic-rimmed glasses and a military i.d. out of his pocket and passes them to his commander.

Vulpes puts the glasses on and lets his eyes adjust. He looks at the i.d. The man in the mugshot is probably 15 years younger but it doesn’t matter. Pale hair, and glasses. That’s all anyone will notice.

He doesn’t like Picus using her nickname, but he says nothing, because she is NCR after all. He might have made an exception for her, but he can’t expect his men to.

“Are they friends?” he asks. If they are, her exception status is going to have to be cancelled.  
“I don’t think so. Although they did have a private conversation at a dinner party recently.”  
“What was discussed?”  
“Craig Boone.”  
Vulpes stays silent, thinking.


	29. Pictures of you (everywhere)

The hell am I doing? I’ve rashly accepted an offer to become the general’s personal spy, in return for some not-quite-ethical professional assistance. The rewards help my clients, not me, but still. I shouldn't have accepted. 

Quite aside from the fact that I have no experience of surreptitiously following people and Mrs Oliver will probably make me in seconds.

In the past, when friends and colleagues of mine have had affairs, or been involved in clandestine relationships, my policy has been to stay well out of it. No asking, no telling. Now I’m diving in headfirst, and the waters are a little scary. Mrs Oliver, in particular, is a little scary. 

_Today,_ he said. I think about going out and getting started, but, well, it’s still awfully hot out there. Perhaps I’ll wait just a little longer, till the sun lowers its angle. One more cold drink. If I’m honest, I’m not wildly keen to get started. That and I don’t even know where to begin.

A while later, a roller-skating messenger-girl arrives, with two messages. The first message is handwritten and unsigned, saying only that Dr Gannon has been released.  
The second message is a typed circular, announcing that the courthouse is closed indefinitely at the request of the judges in the interests of public safety, until the terrorists are apprehended, such closure authorised by General Oliver.

Freeing my days to spend them sneaking. Thank you, general. Damn it.

When I finally raise my bones and head out onto the shimmering street, the first thing I notice is a sniper team on the roof of the building diagonally across the road from my office. Could swear they’re aiming right at me.

The second thing I see is a man in overalls pasting up a poster on a wall nearby. All down the street, there are freshly pasted posters at intermittent spots. All the same, and all so familiar. It’s a head-and-shoulders image of Vulpes Inculta, life size, with instructions to the general population to immediately report any sightings to the nearest service personnel, but not to approach him themselves. “Extremely Dangerous and Likely to be Armed”. There’s a much smaller photo of Cato, probably because they figure, like I do, that he’s not in a fit state to be all that dangerous just yet.

The strange thing is that the photo is one of the ones from his Arizona file. It’s a couple of years old, taken when he was first captured after the battle of Hoover Dam. He’s still in his legion uniform, gazing into the camera, all cool defiance and handsome charisma. The guy is photogenic as all hell. The tousled hair seems to say “bed”, though I doubt he’s ever slept in a real bed in his life. Even the smudges of dark blood on him serve only to accentuate his incredible bone structure. 

What were they thinking? Why would they use this one instead of the one they would surely have taken a week ago when he was booked, showing him as he now is, older, wearier, less heavily muscled. More scarred, more toothless. More accurate, and not quite so smoking hot. It’s inexplicable.

It’s now almost half past 4. I walk down the street towards the military complex with the vague aim of seeing if Gigi is still at work in the admin building.

☣☣☣

Vulpes weighs up the risk, and decides to take it. He can wait around in a dim room forever, listening to Cato’s laboured breathing and Picus’ ridiculously frequent sex sessions with teenaged prostitutes and unhappily married women in the room on the other side of the wall; or he can take a bold stroll when the people hunting him would surely not be expecting it. 

Picus did warn him that there are snipers out, but they’ll be looking for people peeping round corners, people scurrying. Not army personnel, in uniform and walking normally. The streets are dotted with soldiers, and he will be one amongst the many. Vulpes adjusts his uniform, standard NCR trooper issue, tucks his new i.d. in his pocket, and puts on the glasses and a helmet. He studies his look in the mirror. Exactly like every other grunt out there. Stupid as hell. Jodhpurs, indeed. 

The uniform is hot, and heavy, but it disguises him almost completely. There’s even a facewrap, but he doesn’t use it. That would be overkill. The only real problem is no gloves, but even that isn’t much of a problem, he’s learned that people are surprisingly oblivious to noticing his missing fingers, unless he wants them to. He thinks about Lori, how she looked at him. She noticed everything, but her gaze felt like a touch. As good, too. 

He wants to feel it again.

Vulpes hefts the service rifle that Picus supplied him into the downward-pointing position on his back that NCR soldiers wear theirs. It’s just part of the disguise, he doesn’t intend to use it. Though it never hurts to be prepared, so it's fully loaded.

He nods to his men, and heads out.

To reach Lori’s place from Picus’ hideout, the short route would take him close to the military base. The long route, however, would expose him to view for longer. It's uncomfortably hot under all this gear. He decides on the short route.

All over town, there are wanted posters of his face. He doesn't mind too much. They make him look good, and he has to suppress a smile at the “Extremely Dangerous” description. 

When he passes a gaggle of mid-teen girls clustered around one of the posters, audibly admiring it to one another, it becomes even harder to keep a straight face.  
_Oh my god, he’s like, gorgeous!”_  
_Oh my god, Sophie, what if he like, hijacked one of us?!”_  
_Oh my god, that’d be like, amaaaaazing!”_

Nearing the base, Vulpes catches his breath when Lori unexpectedly comes into view. She stands out from the crowd easily in her work clothes, today a light-grey tailored trouser suit, jacket unbuttoned in tribute to the heat, a simple white singlet acting as a shirt. Vulpes notes every detail, but he keeps walking, and casually crosses the road at a diagonal to avoid her eye. They cannot meet here. 

Then he sees her do the oddest thing. She stops short, and looks for somewhere to hide. Has she seen him too? 

Moments later she steps out, and walks on like nothing happened. Too much like nothing happened. Vulpes, for many years a spy, knows immediately that she’s following someone; albeit not very skilfully, especially given her choice of outfit.

Who, and why?

Vulpes decides to follow her and see.

☣☣☣

Maybe I should've gone home and gotten changed first. I'm virtually the only person out in civvies. A mistake. But I doubt it matters, I probably won't find her. 

Mistaken again. Just as I’m approaching the main gates, Gigi herself passes through on her way out, walking with what seems to be a female friend, deep in conversation. They’re both dressed in light brown staff uniforms, although Gigi has an unofficial variant, being a knee-length skirt instead of the regular trousers.

I duck into a doorway and then discover I have nowhere to go and curse myself for the obviousness of my move. Definitely not a pro at sneaking. 

But I get lucky. Gigi and her friend cross the road and head the other way. I wait till they’ve gone a fair distance, then step out as though coming from my own doorway, and follow nonchalantly. At the next corner, Gigi’s friend waves, and they part, the friend turning left, Gigi going straight. Sneaking becomes trickier, as now Gigi is not distracted by conversation. What will I do if she looks behind her? I should have worn a false moustache.

Gigi takes a light brown peaked cap out of her bag and puts it on as she walks, tucking her hair up into it. It becomes hard to distinguish her from the other brown uniforms moving around, except for her non-standard skirt.

One more block, and Gigi pauses, looking at one of the Vulpes posters. And makes a little double-head-bob that I’m pretty sure is laughter. She walks on, and when I get near the poster I see why. It was only a matter of time, inevitable really, before someone drew a cock-and-balls onto one of the posters. This one has a giant set, the balls prickly with sparse cartoon hairs, the tip of the cock aligned with Vulpes’ lips. I smother a laugh and look back towards my prey, to discover she has disappeared.

I keep my cool and keep walking, a little faster, but using longer strides so as not to look like I’m hurrying.

As I round the next corner I see her, glancing around casually before turning into the entrance of a building. It’s a residential block of flats, three stories tall. I’m far enough away, and there are enough random soldiers between us that I don’t think she noticed me.

There’s a tiny bar on the other side of the street, the kind of little place with no seats, just a bar right on the pavement for around six people to stand at, for a quick drink while on their way somewhere. The bar only sells one thing, Gamma Gulp beer. So I buy one, and lean back on the bar with my elbows, super casual. 

Nothing happens for what feels like forever. 

I drank the first one too fast, so I make a point of eking the second out much more carefully. Keep going like that, and I’ll need to pee, and this isn’t the kind of bar that has a toilet. 

The master sneak receives another F-grade when a voice right next to me says “Lori.” and I nearly jump out of my skin.

It’s Craig Boone. He’s dressed in a khaki tank top and combat pants and combat boots. You can take a man out of the army, but you can’t take him out of the cheap and hardy army-surplus gear. 

I notice that the mark around his throat has faded a lot, and the heavy bruises on his face are now only the faintest yellow. He’s a quick healer. The guy’s waking mind might not want to live, but his body clearly does.

Boone sticks his hand out to shake mine. I shake, slightly suspicious, as last time I saw him he was spitting tacks at me.  
“Lori. Wanna apologise. For how I was acting yesterday. And for not taking you seriously.”  
“I wasn’t aware that you didn’t take me seriously,” I reply. “But no harm done. Can I buy you a beer?”  
Boone declines, ordering one for himself instead. “Thought a lot about it today. I know you were trying to help me. You’re alright.”  
“So you forgive me for having clients other than you?”  
“Still don’t agree with you working for those guys. But yeah. I get it, you don’t get to choose who your clients are.”  
“Actually I can decline to take any case, anytime I want.” I don’t know why I’m trying to poke this particular bear. Just to pass the stake-out time I guess. And maybe the beers aren’t helping.

Boone says nothing, just swigs his beer and stares at me.  
“But,” I add, “I am yet to ever decline to take a case that I was available to do.”  
He nods slightly. “Anyway. You gotta take Arcade’s case now. He needs you.”  
I look at the door Gigi went into. Still no movement. “Craig, I would if I could, but that case has been allocated to another guy, and I can’t do anything about that.”  
“Take it off him.”  
I shake my head once. “Can’t. There’s no process to do that.”  
“Fuck process. I’ll incapacitate him if necessary. Just take it off him.”  
I cough and almost choke on my beer.  
“Ahem. Craig,” I indicate to him to lean closer so I can speak more privately. “Don’t incapacitate anyone. Please. Arcade is ok, he’s been released pending his trial, so we’ll probably be able to go see him in his quarters this evening.”  
“The fuck are we waiting for then? Let’s go now,” Boone urges, gesturing down the street.

In my peripheral vision the door of the apartment building opens and a tall handsome man in a senior officer’s uniform steps out, adjusting his cap low over his eyes. Even without looking directly at him I know who it is, because I’ve encountered him twice recently. Major Ronald Curtis. Interesting. I watch Curtis stride off in the direction of the military complex.  
“Can’t go just yet, haven’t finished my beer,” I tell Boone, waving my bottle which has about three sips left in it. Nope, can’t go, because I’m not done with sneaking yet. I want to see how long it is before Gigi comes out. “Um. So… have you been to see your mother yet?”  
“Yeah,” Boone says shortly.  
“And? How is she?”  
There’s a silence. Then Boone says, “She’s fine.” But there’s something in his voice.  
“What?” I prod.  
Boone just shakes his head and looks away.  
“What? Won’t stop chittychatting? Won’t stop weeping? Won’t stop baking you your favourite snack from when you were eight?”  
“Naw, nothing like that, she’s fine.” He sighs. “She’s just so, so religious now. Can’t even talk to her. Keeps asking me to go with her to see The Enlightened One, to get my anodynes removed or whatever.”  
“Neurodynes.”  
“Or whatever,” Boone says pointedly, finishing off the last of his beer. “Not into it. And I don’t wanna stand around talking about it. You coming, or what?”

I’m just about to say ‘you go, I’ll catch you up later’ when the door opens again and Gigi comes out. Still in uniform, hair still under her cap. Or back under her cap. She steps out quickly and confidently, and walks away in the direction of her house without a second glance. Nothing to see here, everything normal, move along. 

Less than five minutes. Not conclusive, but highly suggestive.

I peer up at the rooftops, looking for sniper teams. There is one, further down the street on our side. I wonder if they saw what I saw. Then I figure, no, because they’re not looking for it. They’re looking for Vulpes, and maybe Cato, and no one else.

“Let’s go,” I say, finally putting my empty bottle down. 

Damn, I do need to pee.


	30. Gannon

We find Dr Gannon in his office in the medical compound, wearing glasses held together at one joint by a piece of fine wire.  
Boone walks in first and greets him with a “Hey.”  
Gannon 'Hey's back. When I step in from behind Boone he stands up and bows his head politely. “Miss Treichler.”  
“Dr Gannon.”  
So far, so awkward. Nothing happens for a few seconds, then Gannon steps forward and gives Boone a long, emotional hug. Boone hesitates only a moment, then gives in and hugs back.  
What am I even doing here. I barely know either of these men, and they clearly have a lot of catching up to do.

I’m about to make my excuses and slip out the open door when Gannon stands back and says, “I don’t know why I was released. I don’t know what’s going on. Have they told you anything?” Looking at me.  
“As far as I understand it, you’re still on the hook, you’ve just been temporarily released pending trial.”  
Gannon’s face stays the same but his voice sounds flatter. “Oh. So it’s all still going ahead.”  
“Yes. Unfortunately you made a very convincing case. They like you for the perp and I don’t blame them.”  
“Any chance you could defend me?”  
“I’m afraid not. But I’ll help your lawyer any way I can.”  
Boone cuts in. “Wait a minute. You’re saying he’s still up for the murder?”  
“Yes.”  
Boone looks thunderstruck. “Can I …”  
“No. No going back. You’re off, he’s on. It’s a fait accompli. But there are still things we can do.” I just haven’t thought of them yet.

As we are talking, other facility staff are passing through the corridor outside his door. All of them take the opportunity to glance in. Some look worried, others just curious. Some accusatory.  
“Let’s get out of here,” Gannon says. 

I offer them to come to my place, to be somewhere peaceful, far from eavesdroppers and prying eyes. They willingly agree, so after I avail myself of the facilities, we set off.

The sun is lower in the sky now, allowing long shadows to cool strips of the city. 

We walk together, three abreast, Boone in the middle. Past the Vulpes posters. A few more of them defaced now. **fuck desert snakes** is scrawled on one, right across his eyes. **Kill Me On Sight** says another, with the warnings for citizens not to approach him emphatically crossed out. 

It suddenly occurs to me that one of these desert snakes might actually be in my apartment, right this moment. Waiting for me. Writing another of his funny messages. INSTRUCTION NOT FOLLOWED. DISAPPOINTED. X.

Problem. I can’t let Boone encounter him. I form a plan. I’ll say that a female friend of mine might be using my apartment, and go in first to check. If by chance he’s there, I’ll just hide him in my bedroom then invite the guys in. He can either stay, tucked out of sight, or make his escape. My bedroom has a door onto the balcony, so no problem, he can shinny down the drainpipe. Seems like the kind of guy who has plenty of experience sneaking into buildings, probably equally good at sneaking out of them.

Up ahead, two girls are carefully peeling a graffiti-free Vulpes poster off the wall. One of the girls already has one, rolled up under her arm. They’re not actually giggling, but they have a definite giggly vibe.

“Looks like our old acquaintance has a fan club,” remarks Gannon.  
“Maybe just taking them down to get his ugly face outta their faces,” suggests Boone. “Civic service.”  
“Ha. No. Those girls were definitely getting moist.”  
“Says the expert on girls.”  
“I don’t have to be an expert on girls, because I’m an expert on teenage crushes on dishy guys, and those two were crushing if I ever saw it.”  
“They should be shot too, then.”  
“Not very charitable.”  
“A girl can’t help it if she has very good taste,” I chime in, quoting something Gigi Oliver recently said to me. And immediately regretting it when Gannon and Boone both look at me like I’m a nut.

We walk on in silence. 

Past a patrol that gives me a very long, very unfriendly stare. 

Past a street preacher from the Hubology centre, prophesying imminent doom unless we cleanse. I’ve seen him before, and I can’t help but notice that today he has attracted a much bigger crowd than usual. Seven or eight people, instead of none. 

Past a Ranger who makes a show of unholstering his weapon as we get near. His masked face turns to follow us as we go by. One of my Rangers? I wonder. No way of knowing.

By the time we get to my building, it’s apparent that the mood in the city is getting weird. And not in a good way. It’s a relief to get inside. 

No Vulpes. I quickly check the bedroom. Empty. So I invite Boone and Gannon in, and get them settled on the sofa with cold drinks. Then I surreptitiously inspect my apartment, looking for signs of visitation. Nothing. The note he left me last time is where I left it, nothing new written on it.

So it’s me who’s disappointed, after all.

The evening’s _Bugle_ is here. The headline is the usual hyped-up fare. ASSASSINS ROAM CITY – Dramatic Pre-dawn Jailbreak – Oliver Issues Orders to Shoot on Sight – Kimball Warns Citizens to Stay Calm but Be Vigilant. An army source is quoted as saying citizens should stay indoors if possible, as “bullets are going to fly and anyone caught in the crossfire will only have themselves to blame.”

I skim the front page but there’s no real information. Page 2, however, stuns me.

The left side of page 2 has a portrait of Vulpes, the same one that’s plastered all over the city, with a heading THE MONSTER.  
Around the photo is an article about all his crimes, with interviews from people who sort-of knew someone who met someone who’d almost been in the same room with him once. Complete with plenty of speculation about the fiendish and dastardly acts he might well be planning to do now that he was at large in the city, roaming free and unrestrained by shackle or conscience.

The right side of the page has a picture of me, cropped tightly from the “who wore it better” shot. I’m in my scarlet dress, but they’ve somehow darkened it so that it gives the impression of being the exact same shade of red that Vulpes is wearing. Legion red. I don’t think it’s accidental, either, because THE WOMAN IN RED is my headline. The article discusses my unpopularity in the city since I had begun representing “the man who shot Major Gilles” and then “the two Legion assassins”. Even though I’m not actually representing Gannon or Cato, but never let the facts get in the way of a good story and all that.

It goes on to say that an unnamed source at the prison had revealed that I had insisted on making an unauthorised visit to the Legion assassin after hours, in his cell, the night of his escape. That I had gone there instead of paying my respects to Major Gilles at her funeral. There’s a quote from Gilles’ older brother saying that it was typical that someone like me wouldn’t bother showing any respect for my betters. The prison source adds that I had worn a low cut and “sexy” dress, and I had spent considerable time alone in Inculta’s cell with him, doing “things unknown.”

Outrageous. It was 20 minutes and they could have looked in on me any time they wanted. And I did attend the funeral, I just left early.

It ends with a quote from Arnette Lang, the psychiatrist, saying that Inculta clearly had a narcissistic sociopathic personality disorder, and that many lawyers also have a similar disorder, which in her strictly professional opinion might explain why I appeared to identify with him.

 _Gasp._ This is character assassination, alright. Although I can’t entirely blame Arnette for wanting revenge on me. I did blackmail her, I admit it. 

Page 3 is a big puff piece about Major Ronald Curtis, with a photo of him looking tall dark and handsome as ever, in a dress uniform covered in medals, and another of him in action in a battle zone somewhere, aiming a rifle, looking ultra manly. His heading is THE NEW CHAMPION! The implication being, I suppose, that Curtis is going to heroically save the city from the depredations of the Legion assassin and his slutty lawyer. 

A quick skim read indicates that tomorrow morning Curtis is going to be promoted to the grand rank of Colonel, by General Oliver, at a ceremony that is going to be well-guarded given the city’s current security concerns.

There’s also a small article on page 4 saying that Craig Boone has been released due to lack of evidence. Arcade replacing Boone on the charge isn’t mentioned anywhere. Small mercies. 

Lady Penelope Polecat’s column is absent. The back page has nothing on it but a crossword and a couple of pieces about school sports and exam results, and the Quote of the Day, which today is from the philosopher Jorge Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás: “Professional philosophers are usually only apologists: that is, they are absorbed in defending some vested illusion or some eloquent idea. Like lawyers or detectives, they study the case for which they are retained.”

“Your apartment is nice, Lori,” Gannon says politely. “Wonderful view from your balcony.”  
“Oh. Well, thanks,” I reply awkwardly, recalling myself to the situation at hand. I have guests. A vanishingly rare event.

I look around my place with the eyes of a visitor. It’s dusty, and the only reason it’s tidy is that I hardly own anything. But it does have a good view, that’s true.  
“And I see you have a music collection.”  
Also true.  
“I’d love to hear some music,” Gannon says. “You choose. Something lighthearted.”  
Going over to the gramophone, I look for something lighthearted, and find Anita O’Day’s “Sweet Georgia Brown”.

_They all sigh, and wanna die, for sweet Georgia Brown_  
_I’ll tell you why_  
_You know I don’t lie… much_

“You mentioned Vulpes Inculta is an old acquaintance of yours?” I ask Gannon, sitting in an easy chair across the coffee table from the men.  
“One way of puttin’ it,” Boone mutters.  
“I met him on 3 or 4 occasions,” Gannon says. He turns to ask Boone, “Did you ever meet him?”  
“Nah. If I did, he’d be dead.”  
Gannon nods at me in a he-ain’t-lying way.  
I’m curious. “How did you come to meet him?”  
“Well, it’s a long story. Have we got all night?”  
The three of us all look at each other and shrug. We have.

Gannon tells the story of a man he knew in the Mojave Desert, named simply The Courier. He and Boone both worked for The Courier, although he notes that they were unpaid and the Courier was something of a cult figure, no one ever truly knew him, so they were more like acolytes, or disciples, than his employees or friends.  
The Courier appeared in the Mojave Desert just when the NCR was losing troops, losing territory and looked like they might even lose Hoover Dam. The losses were unprecedented – the NCR had never faced such well-organised and audacious attacks. 

Vulpes Inculta was one of the antagonists causing the losses. The primary antagonist, in fact, at least according to Gannon. Inculta’s own cult leader, the so-called Caesar, was getting old and sick by then. Inculta’s tactics were a particularly vicious and intractable brand of guerrilla warfare. He used the fog of war to great effect. Nothing was ever what it seemed, and nothing was too low for him. He lied, cheated and stole. He poisoned, kidnapped and blackmailed. And it was working, the dominoes were falling just the way he wanted. Until the Courier appeared and showed an understanding of the way Inculta thought. Got in his head, undermined him, managed to even anticipate a few moves, in a way that the NCR had never been able to. Culminating in accurately guessing where Inculta would be at the Battle of Hoover Dam, leading to Inculta’s capture and detention.

“I think, looking back, The Courier and Inculta were very similar in some ways,” muses Gannon.  
Boone, slouched next to him, looks disgusted. “Except The Courier had some kinda sense of honour, whereas Inculta wouldn’t know what honour was if he was fucking drowning in it.”  
“I don’t know. I actually think the Legion did have a sense of honour, they just reserved it very strictly for their own side,” Gannon says thoughtfully.  
“Says the guy who nearly became Caesar’s private masseuse.”  
“Urgh. Don’t remind me.” Gannon grimaces.  
“Do tell,” I prompt.

Gannon continues. The Courier was quite popular with Caesar, before he decided to side with the NCR. On one of The Courier’s last visits to the Legion’s base, Caesar asked him if he would mind just leaving Dr Gannon behind, as he needed some assistance with his failing health. He promised to take good care of the doctor, and The Courier had spent an alarmingly long time pondering the idea.  
“He was seriously considering it,” Gannon says, shuddering.  
Boone nods. “Yeah, it almost happened. Veronica told me. The Courier asked her if she could become our medic, and it was only ‘cos she said no that he didn’t give you away.”  
“Veronica being another of the acolytes,” Gannon clarifies for my benefit. “A mechanic. Not a medic. Thank the stars.”  
“So these were the occasions when you met Inculta? In Caesar’s company?” I ask.  
“I also met him in New Vegas once. Oh, and a town called Nipton.”  
“Gannon. No. Let’s not talk about all that old shit. Please,” Boone interrupts. “I’m trying to forget it.”  
There’s a silence. I refill everyone’s drinks. Whisky and water. Heavy on both. It’s starting to make me feel a bit flushed.

“It’s weird how circular things are,” Gannon says, dreamily. He slides down in his seat a little, gazing into space, looking completely relaxed.  
“Meaning what,” Boone asks.  
“You know, me and you together, Vulpes Inculta on the loose. And here we are again.”  
“Pff,” Boone scoffs. “He’ll be in the morgue tomorrow morning, full of holes. Count on it.”  
“And me saving your butt, just like old times,” Gannon adds, smiling.  
Boone goes serious. “You shouldn’a done that.”  
“No. Oh well. It’s done.”  
Boone stares right into my eyes, and I know what he’s telling me. But I don’t know what I can do.

After a while I get up and find some snacks, before we get too drunk on empty stomachs. Probably a bit too late. All of us would be unsafe to operate heavy machinery at this point.

The relationship between these two men is interesting to watch. They have so little in common personality-wise, but they’ve evidently been through things together that have made them very close friends. The kind of friend you keep forever, even if you don’t often see each other. A valuable friend.

We chat on, into the night, drinking and occasionally laughing. It’s the most social activity I’ve had in years.

Eventually Boone, unwilling to go home to his mother’s house, drinks himself into a stupor and falls sideways on the sofa, fast asleep. 

“How did you find him, in person, though?” I ask.  
Gannon looks blank. “Who?”  
“Inculta.”  
“Oh. Well… he’s very charming. Immaculate manners. A good conversationalist. Disarming, even when you know his reputation. Impossible not to like - if he wants you to like him. Scary as hell when he wants to be, too. And, not handsome exactly, but attractive. Or… magnetic, yes that would be the word. He makes you want to be with him, want his approval. Lori, why are you so interested in Vulpes Inculta, if I may ask?”  
Oops. Now I’m on the spot.  
“He’s my client. Or was. And everyone’s interested in him, today!” I say lightly, holding up the Bugle’s front page. “By the way have you noticed there’s no Polecat’s Social Diary today,” I go on, oh-so-casually changing the subject. “I wonder what’s happened to that.”  
Gannon makes a “who knows” face.

“I wonder who Polecat really is,” I muse out loud.  
Gannon says, “It’s a different person to who it used to be, that’s one thing I know. The original Polecat was a medical researcher who worked in the infirmary, her name was Dr Ferry, and – hey, do you remember that scandal about the Olivers having affairs?”  
“Yep.” I sure do. Favourite episode of the Diary ever.  
“Right after that column, Ferry “suddenly left town”. And at the same time, the doctor who she intimated was having an affair with Gigi O. got redeployed to the front by General O. and very soon after that, he was - apparently - killed in action.”  
My jaw drops. “How did I never hear about that?”  
Gannon nods sagely. “Uh huh. There’s so much shit going on in this town, you wouldn’t believe. You being a virtual recluse, of course, may be one of the reasons why you aren’t quite up with it.”  
“Touché. I guess that’s why they wouldn’t tell me who the new Polecat is, down at the Bugle office. Dangerous occupation.”  
“Mm.”

That settles it. If General Oliver arranges the death of men accused of having affairs with his wife, there’s no way I can tell him about my suspicions about Gigi and Curtis. Especially when my suspicions are pure guesswork. It was a three-story apartment building I saw them exit, with probably 6 apartments in it. Only a 1 in 6 chance it was him she was visiting. Less than 17%. Or they might both have been visiting the same friend, entirely innocently.

“Lori?” slurs Boone from the sofa cushions.  
“Yes?”  
“I’m sorry. ‘Bout, y’know.”  
“That’s ok.”  
“Not very good at expressin’ myself.” It’s hard to understand him, as drunk as he is.  
“On the contrary, Craig, you made yourself abundantly clear. You expressed yourself all over my antique, hand-embroidered handkerchief.”  
There’s no answer but a snore. He’s out again.

Gannon raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know what that was about and I’m not sure I want to.”  
“You definitely don’t want to.”

A more temperate drinker than Boone, Gannon stands up to leave. I offer to walk him back to the medical compound but he insists that he’s alright. Before he says goodbye, he tells me to watch out for Vulpes Inculta.  
“I think I’ll be fine,” I reply, with a smile.  
“I’m serious, Lori. Yes he’s charming, disarming, and strangely magnetic. But he is an exceptionally dangerous actor. Never to be trusted.” Gannon’s manner is earnest, and I believe him. “It’s kinda obvious that you’re interested in him. But please, be careful.”  
“Duly noted. Thank you, Dr Gannon.”  
“And look after my drunken friend here.” He gives me a half smile, and waves goodbye.

I tuck a blanket over Boone’s sleeping form, head to the shower, and once clean, take myself to bed. I’m exhausted, but it takes a long time to fall asleep.


	31. A warning, and a new note

WEDNESDAY  
8:32 a.m., Wednesday May 2nd, 2283  
I’m awakened by a loud tapping sound. My apartment door. Someone knocking. Sunshine streaming in my windows, meaning that unless this is a weekend, I’m late for work. Is it a weekend? Can’t remember.

Tap tap. Tap tap.

“Miss… Lori,” Boone grunts from the living room, sounding as out-of-it as I feel. “Want me to get that?” Sounding like _wommedagetha_?  
“No,” I reply, struggling to disentangle myself from my sheets. I’m already in a t-shirt and knickers, so I just pull on some jeans, and pad across to the door.  
“Who is it?” I call, thinking, please let it not be Rangers.  
“Ranger Sean O’Riordan, ma’am.” 

Well I guess I can make an exception. 

I open the door. O’Riordan takes one step in. His wary eyes scan the room and make immediate note of Boone sprawled on my sofa, the blanket I laid over him now rumpled underneath his body. His boots and belt are off and lying on the floor next to him, but apart from that he slept in his clothes.

Meanwhile, I have bed-hair and no bra on. Embarrassing.

To his credit, Ranger O’Riordan makes no comment on my houseguest, and I don’t try to explain.

“Lieutenant Treichler, ma’am, I’m sorry to come around so early in the day. May I speak to you privately?”  
He’s being very polite, because it’s not early at all, by NCR City standards. He’s probably been up for three hours already.  
“Sure. Come in. We can talk… uh…” I was going to say in my bedroom, but he might take that the wrong way. “Boone, would you mind stepping onto the balcony for a short while? I’ll bring you a coffee.”  
Boone wordlessly drags his carcass off the sofa and out into the fresh morning air. I close the sliding door behind him, and set to making the coffee.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” O’Riordan says, watching me get out three cups. I put one back. “I came to warn you. Did you read last night’s paper?”  
“I did. Not pretty.”  
“That’s an understatement, ma’am. They pretty much said you are working for the Legion.”  
“I got that. And it’s bullshit.”  
“I’m sure it is, but a lot of people are choosing to believe it. No smoke without fire and so on. Plus, not to be impolite, but it fits the general public view of you.”  
“Which is, hard-working person trying to do her job right?” I say mock-hopefully.  
“Which is, strangely reclusive and suspiciously intelligent woman with too much power and too little accountability, who exclusively uses her considerable abilities to protect and assist criminals.”  
“When you put it like that, I sound fantastic,” I grin. “Just a sec.” I open the sliding door and pass Boone a cup of coffee, with one sugar. Just a guess. Seems like a one-sugar kind of guy. 

Boone takes a sip and nods his thanks.

Ranger O’Riordan stares at me, his face stern. “Lieutenant, you need to take this seriously. It’s no laughing matter. I heard people talking about you last night, and more people this morning. What they’re saying ain’t nice. People are saying you fucked this guy in his prison cell; ’scuse the language. They’re saying you helped him escape. That you oughta be put through the wringer and hung out to dry. And I don’t mean just idle talk. Some pretty powerful people are gunning for you.”  
“Come on. That’s ludicrous and you know it. Prisons have doors with observation windows in them and guards walking past, looking in. Why would I risk my license for a quickie?”  
“Why did you go into his cell after hours?”  
“To talk to him. I wanted to show him a report I had just received, and I wanted to ask him a few questions about his whereabouts at certain times.”  
“What report?”  
“His detention report, from when he was a prisoner of war in the Mojave. Fully redacted, obtained by legal means, nothing classified.” Although the horrific torture photos had been left in by mistake, I’m almost certain.

Boone taps on the glass, squinting through at me. I look at him enquiringly, and he jabs a finger, indicating the little pile of his stuff on the coffee table. Some caps, a pair of dark glasses, an antique zippo lighter and a battered pack of cigarettes. Ah. 

I pull one cigarette out of the pack and pick up the lighter and the glasses. Opening the sliding door a crack again, I pass him his glasses, which he puts on immediately, then the cigarette, then I flick the lighter and he bows his head to let me light it for him. I get another nod of thanks, and he turns away to lean on the railing and survey the barracks below.

When the sliding door is closed again, O’Riordan says heavily, “Ma’am, I only met you yesterday so I may be wrong, but you seemed like a real nice lady to me. Real genuine. So I came here to warn you. Lay low, for a while, and if you got any friends in high places, it’d be a good time to call in some favours. That’s all I want to say.” The Ranger sticks his hand out, and I shake it. Instantly aware of untethered breast-wobble as I do. Damn it. 

O’Riordan keeps his eyes on mine. He just says, “Good luck,” and walks out, closing the door carefully behind him.

Boone flicks his cigarette over the balcony and comes back inside the moment the door closes. “Goddamn it’s bright out there,” he mutters. “What’d O’Riordan want?”  
“You know him?”  
“By sight, yeah. Went through training a couple years ahead of me.”  
“He wanted to warn me not to stick my neck out. Seems I’m even less popular than usual at the moment.”  
“He your boyfriend? If you don’t mind my asking?”  
“I do, and it’s not your business, but no, he’s not.”  
“Sorry. Thought you looked…” he waves his hand to indicate something, I’m not sure exactly what. I look blankly at him.  
“Comfortable together, I guess,” he elucidates, flopping back down onto the sofa, and looking for all the world like he’s moved in for good.

Huh. Maybe Ranger O’Riordan and I could have been comfortable together, I wonder. If I hadn’t already thrown in my lot with a man that I anticipate I’m going to spend the next few days vehemently denying I have anything to do with.

“Craig, are you going to go home and see your mama today?” I ask.  
“No. Saw her yesterday. She knows I’m ok.”  
I decide not to argue about it now. “Alright, I’m going to get ready for work. Help yourself to whatever you can find to eat.”  
“Thanks.” Boone lays down, puts his feet up on the armrest, his arm over his eyes, and appears to go back to sleep.  
“Boone.” I prod him.  
“Hm?”  
“Don’t open the door to anyone, ok? And if you hear someone trying to pick the lock, make a lotta manly-sounding noise to scare them off.”  
“K,” he says from under his arm.  
“And don’t get into any confrontations.”  
“K.”

☣☣☣

Walking to work, carefully buttoned up in my most austere suit, I see the same tense atmosphere on the street as yesterday, except now it’s personal. I get outright hostile looks, and even a few gun-fingers aiming at my head.

I keep my head down and think about what Gannon said last night. That Vulpes tricks people into liking him, and can never be trusted. I ponder, for a few blocks, the question of whether Vulpes is merely using me. But I can’t see any purpose. He seems not have used me, yet. Nonetheless, I make a note to myself to be on guard.

Going into the office building, I say hi to Tomasz, who’s sitting at his desk, reading a thick law textbook. Tomasz says hi back, but looks very unhappy.

He follows me into my office. “Lori.” He looks really worried.  
“Tommy, if you’re going to say did I read last night’s paper, the answer is yes and don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.”  
“Ok.” He still looks worried. “Mr Tibbett the editor came here to see you this morning. He asked me to tell you that he didn’t edit last night’s edition. It was edited by someone in the High Command. He was pretty sorry about it.”  
“Thanks Tommy.”  
He bows out and closes my door, leaving me in silence, but not tranquillity.  
Shit. That’s bad, bad news. I thought it was just tabloid silliness. But O’Riordan was right. Someone powerful is gunning for me.

☣☣☣

Sitting down at my desk, the Inculta file is sitting right in front of me. I definitely locked that up last night, as I always lock up all my client files. Tomasz must have gotten it out for me.

I open it, and immediately notice something strange. The first page is my handwritten notes of my meeting with Vulpes in his cell the night before last. Nothing much, just a brief record to myself of the things we discussed. At the bottom of the page, though, someone else has added more writing, in a skilful approximation of my own handwriting. Not letter-perfect, but very similar.

_An age-old question has been answered – love at first sight does exist. It’s obvious that he loves me. He adores me. It’s equally obvious that he desires my love. When next I see him, he will no doubt present himself to be kissed. And when he does, how will I respond? If I should turn away, he must know not to pursue me. But if I kiss him, if I so much as touch my lips to his, he will love me for ever. That much is certain._

_X._

Oho. That sly old fox. Whispering sweet, sweet nothings into my ear, in my own voice no less.

My heart is beating fast. He may be tricking me, hell he probably is, but damn he’s good at it. The ride alone is worth it.


	32. Enter the Vulpesitas, and a very exciting interview

The people of the NCR are habitually taciturn. The word ‘love’ is not bandied about - in fact you very rarely hear it. Men are ‘fond of’ their wives. Women ‘admire and respect’ their husbands. Friends only ever ‘get on with’ or ‘like’ each other. Even my late husband, with whom I had a close and happy relationship, never once said to me that he loved me, that I can recall. Nor I to him. 

Love is not something we like to admit to, in NCR City.

So for Vulpes to use the word four times in one short paragraph is stunning. Plus all the other words… ‘adores’, ‘desires’, mentions of touching and kissing.

I read it again. It leaves me breathless. I don’t know what ‘present himself to be kissed’ means; but I’m looking forward to finding out.

The telephone rings loudly and nearly gives me a stroke.  
“Hello?” I say cautiously.  
The line sounds distant and crackly, as though the caller is being patched in by a third party. Then Vulpes’ voice says, “Good morning, Lori.”  
“Good morning,” I whisper, not daring use his name, in case my line is tapped. Neither do I dare ask where he is calling from.  
“I trust you found my message.”  
“I did.”  
There’s a pause. I’m just wondering if he expects me to say more, when he speaks again. “I mean every word.”  
I can’t speak.  
Vulpes says, “I’ll see you soon.” The line clicks dead without waiting for a response.

After a period of staring into space, I collect my thoughts and get up to go out to where Tommy is sitting.

He looks up as I approach. “Hey Tommy, the courthouse is closed indefinitely, so I don’t have much work for you at the moment. You could just go home if you want. I’ll still pay you for the day.”  
Tommy thinks about it for a moment then declines my offer. He’s studying for an exam, and it’s much quieter here than at home.  
“Thanks though, Lori,” he adds. “You don’t have to pay me if there’s nothing to do.”  
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be at home?”  
“Definitely.”

It’s probably ok. Vulpes wouldn’t be crazy enough to come here, would he? What am I thinking, of course he would. He already came here, sometime after I left yesterday. 

Oh well. If he’s willing to take that risk, then that’s his call.

There’s still plenty of paperwork for me to be getting on with. Non-urgent stuff that I don’t often get time to attend to. Now’s the perfect time. I put Vulpes’ file away, collect the files that need attention, then spread the paperwork out on my vast desk, arranged in order of priority, and get to work.

About two hours later the phone rings again.  
“Lori, hi, it’s Arcade,” says the doctor cheerfully.  
“Oh hi,” I feel relieved to hear his voice. Someone – relatively – normal.  
“Thanks for the great night last night. Sorry if we kept you up on a school night,” Gannon says.  
“No problem, I had fun. Boone’s still sleeping it off at my place.”  
“Not now he isn’t, he’s here with me.”  
“Oh, ok.”  
“It was a really good evening. We were wondering if you’d like to do another session tonight? I’ll supply the booze. Or the sarsaparillas, if you prefer.”  
“Um…”  
“Or do you want to meet up with us somewhere? Maybe the Shh! bar?”

Shh! is a secret nightclub that I have vaguely heard rumours of, but don’t know anyone who’s been to. It’s reputed to only open at midnight, change locations sporadically, and cater to people who don’t fit into NCR City’s usual mould. I’ve always been extremely curious to see it.

“Alright. The Shh! bar it is,” I answer.  
“We’ll swing by your place and pick you up 11ish, that ok with you?” says Arcade.  
“Doesn’t it only open at 12?” I ask.  
“I know the owner, so we can get in early.” I can hear the smile in his voice. For a man on death row, he’s awfully happy.

I agree to the plan, and he rings off. 

Breakfast with Boone, a home visit from O’Riordan, a possible visit from my secret would-be lover Vulpes, and a late night drinks date with Arcade and Boone, all in one day. For a self-imposed hermit, my social calendar is bulging.

Tidying up my work into one orderly pile, I pick up my handbag and head out of the office to go get some lunch. 

Tommy comes with me, on his insistence. He doesn’t explicitly say it but it’s obvious he doesn’t think I should go out alone, not with the city in the frenzy it’s in right now. Nice of him to worry about me, but I’m sure it won’t be necessary. Still, I humour him and we step out into the blazing sunshine together.

And run smack into a group of six teenaged girls, all dressed in varying shades of red, and all with freshly bleached white hair.

“There she is!” cries one of them, and to my astonishment I actually recognise her. It’s Sophie, one of the junior Hubologists who accosted me a few days ago near my apartment.

“Ladies..?” I say, while attempting to skirt around them.  
They block my path. “Where’s Vulpes? We’re here to help him!” one of them shrills. She pronounces it with a hard v.  
“Who’s asking?” I ask in turn.  
Sophie, who appears to be their leader, majestically announces, “We are the Vulpesitas. We are the harem of the god. Our role is to provide for him. If he graces you with his presence, please tell him that he can call on us for anything he needs.”  
“I thought you were a Hubologist. What would the Hub say about worshipping a rival prophet?”  
“Hubology is over. VULPESITAS RISE!” Sophie pumps a fist in the air, and all the Vulpesitas make the same gesture, hooting with fervour and excitement. I notice they are all wearing v-necks. Wow. True dedication.

Tomasz is standing next to me, looking surprised and a little alarmed. I take his arm, to reassure him, and then speak as politely as I can manage. “Thank you, ladies. I don’t expect to see him, but if I did, I would certainly pass on your message, and I don’t doubt that he would be commensurately grateful to you.”

We push past them and walk on. After a minute, Tommy murmurs, “The ‘harem of the god’?”  
“Yeah,” I chuckle.  
“Those girls are maniacs. They’re actually worshipping him. A terrorist.”  
I remember Gannon’s analysis. “Well, I think it’s more likely they just have a crush on his striking looks which, after all, have been posted up all over town. And Sophie their leader is fresh out of a religious cult, so it sounds like there’s been some crossover in approach. Ah ha ha, how funny!”  
Tomasz looks not even faintly amused.

We reach the delicatessen and buy salted bighorner beef sandwiches with plenty of mustard.

I’m still getting the evil eye from passers-by, but it’s amazing how fast you can get used to things like that. I receive another gun-fingers gesture from a passing patrol, and return the compliment with a middle-fingered gesture of my own, locking eyes with the sergeant leading the patrol. This alarms Tomasz terribly. He grabs my arm down and rushes us on.  
“Why’d you do that? Lori! You’re going to get shot!” he frets as we unlock the office and go inside.  
“No I’m not. Tommy, don’t you think it’s strange that 24 hours ago, the idea of me being shot by soldiers while walking down the street at midday would have been unthinkable, and now you are half-expecting it?”  
“I’m not expecting it. I’m just, you know, worrying about it,” he admits.  
“That’s what I mean. It makes no sense. It’s not a natural state. It’s been artificially created.”  
“Maybe, Lori, but it’s happening, we’re not imagining it. People are looking at you like they want you dead.”  
“Maybe the city’s under more stress than it can handle, and they think my death would relieve the tension.” I’m only kidding, but again Tommy looks serious.  
“Are you joking?” he asks.  
“Yes.”  
“Don’t joke about this.”  
“Ok.”

We share a sunset sarsaparilla, then resume our places, Tommy studying his antiquated textbook on tort law at his desk and me working at on client files at mine.

Until I hear voices outside my door, and Tommy saying loudly, you need an appointment.  
A moment later he knocks and sticks his head in. He looks even more alarmed than before, if possible.  
“Lori, there’s a Doctor Arcade Gannon here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment. Are you busy?” He nods as though he desperately wants me to agree that I am busy.

Gannon? That’s not alarming at all. “Send him in, please.”

Tommy’s face falls, but after a moment’s hesitation, he stands aside, and Vulpes Inculta walks in.

He turns to look coolly at Tommy, until Tommy reluctantly backs out, closing the door on us. Inculta turns the deadbolt which locks the door from the inside, then takes off the helmet and glasses he wears.

While I sit there, speechless, he casually comes over, stands next to my client chair, and gazes at me.

I indicate for him to take a seat. 

He’s in an NCR trooper uniform. The glasses that he took off look a lot like Gannon’s. It’s bizarre to see him with “NCR” written on him, and our emblem of a bear on his breastplate. He hangs his rifle over the back of the chair and sits down.  
“Arcade Gannon?” I enquire.  
In answer he unclips the official NCR military i.d. from his belt and skims it over my desk to arrive in front of me. It’s real. They’re hard to forge. Lieutenant Doctor Arcade Gannon, d.o.b. 2246. Level 3 security clearance.  
“My assistant selected them for me. He assumed the doctor would be detained for longer than he was.”  
“Hm. Well, the hair colour is almost a match, and the glasses are quite distracting from the rest of your face. And you just walked through town in broad daylight, so I guess it’s working.”  
“So far.”  
“Did you run into the Vulpesitas?”  
“The what?”  
“Your teenybopper fan club. They worship you as a god. Describe themselves as your harem.”  
Hearing that, Vulpes’ expression is so comical, a perfect combination of incredulity and disgust. So much so that I actually feel sorry for Sophie and her friends.  
“Heh. Aw, they’re just kids, crushing on a photo. Never mind. As for why the powers that be keep using your old photo, instead of the one they took when they booked you, I can’t imagine.”  
“They didn’t take one when they booked me.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“I think I would remember.”  
That’s a breach of procedure. They must have forgotten. Or else didn’t bother because there was no possibility that he would ever be outside the prison walls again.

Silence falls. 

And continues. 

If Vulpes doesn’t broach it, it’s going to go on for ever, because I can’t think of a damned thing to say.

Vulpes starts to unbuckle his breastplate with one hand. His eyes remain on mine. Only got three fingers but he’s plenty dextrous with them. He drops it on the floor next to his helmet and glasses, and then unbuckles his belt, which runs over his jacket and holds a small water flask and various tools. The belt and accoutrements go on the floor. His three fingers then pop open the top button on his jacket, then the second, then the third. 

I watch, fascinated by his dexterity, as he opens all the buttons.

He stands up and slips the jacket off, dropping it down onto the pile on the floor. He has an old, very faded standard military issue t-shirt underneath. A little loose on him. Borrowed, like the uniform. 

He moves around to my side of the desk. Puts his hand out for me to take. I take it, and he lifts me to my feet. I’m standing right up close to him. So close that I feel his warmth. I raise my eyes to his.  
“Kiss me,” he whispers, so softly it’s almost inaudible.

The room is silent but alarm bells are tingling so loud in my head I can barely hear over them. Hold it together, I command myself. “I haven’t decided if that’s a good idea or not yet.”

Vulpes smoulders at me steadily. No disappointment in his eyes. More like he expected it wouldn’t be quite as easy as that, and he’s willing to play the long game. Or a little longer, any road. Exactly how long is something only he knows.

I whisper, “I don’t think I can handle you.”  
He answers, “I think you can.”

He lifts my hand and places it flat on his chest, high up. I feel his heart beating under my fingers. Not fast. A slow, strong, powerful rhythm. I can smell his skin, feel his heat. It’s intoxicating. I feel my resolve crumbling. Oh, damn it.

He leans forward and his cheekbone lightly touches mine. I hear him inhale the smell of my hair. His lips ghost over my skin, never quite reaching my own.

So this is what he meant by “presenting himself to be kissed”. It’s phenomenally enticing. I can stay frozen in place, or I can turn my head just an fraction to the left and my lips will touch his, and only a person with no pulse could do the former. I thought that was me, that I was dead to feeling, but I was quite wrong. I suddenly feel very alive. 

His eyelashes brush against mine. I catch a glimpse of that faded grey-blue colour in his eyes that so transfixed me the day we met, up on the hilltop. 

Damn the torpedoes. I surrender, and give in to what soon become the most blissful sensations I could have dreamed of.

Loud voices outside my door break my focus. Tommy is shouting at someone, and getting shouted at in return. I’ve never heard Tommy shout before. Something’s really wrong.  
“Get out of here!” he yells. “Come back when you’ve got a warrant!”  
Oh shit.  
BAM BAM BAM! It’s less a knock, more a bludgeoning, with not a fist but the butt of a rifle. “Military police! Open this door!” BAM BAM BAM BAM!

There’s nowhere for a man to hide in my office. Maybe a kid, but not an adult. The cupboards are not big enough, and full of papers and books anyway. The windows are barred. The only options are behind the door, if they leave it open, or under my desk.  
Vulpes moves back over to my client chair and lifts his rifle, his eyes fixed on the door.  
“No!” I whisper as quietly as I can, shaking my head madly. There cannot be a bloodbath in my office. Not acceptable.  
“Just a minute, I’m coming!” I call brightly, grabbing up Vulpes’ discarded things from the floor and stuffing them in a drawer. I try to grab the rifle off him but he won’t relinquish it. So I just drag him and the rifle together and push him under my desk. The space is easily large enough for him, but the rifle doesn’t fit, and ends up on the floor across the front of the footwell. Invisible from the door, but if they come around the side of the desk and take a look, well, I’ll have some explaining to do.

BAM BAM BAM BAM!

“Coming!” I call again, and smooth my suit and hair down as I walk over to the door. Trying to calm my heartbeat which is going like off an old-style alarm clock.

As soon as I unlock the door it bursts open and three MPs are visible, two men and a woman. All three of them look hard as nails. The two men push their way into my office. The woman stays outside with Tommy, who looks terrified, poor kid.

“Sergeant John Ferguson, military police,” says the older of the two men, by way of introduction. He flashes an i.d. at me. “Lieutenant Treichler, we’re here to search your premises and interview you about your relationship with Vulpes Inculta and the other allegations that have been made against you.”  
“You’re welcome to search my premises, but my files are confidential, as you know,” I say, trying to be friendly. I gesture around the room, with its lack of hidey holes. Except one. “Search complete,” I say in a jokey voice. Trying not to seem like I’m on the verge of a heart attack. 

I move a spare chair up to my desk, next to my client chair, and casually go around the desk to sit down on my side. “Gentlemen, please, have a seat. I’m not busy, so I can give you as much time as you need. Would you like a cup of coffee? My assistant can make you one. Tomasz!”  
“No coffee,” says Sergeant Ferguson flatly, but he sits down, and his colleague sits next to him. A good start.

Tommy sticks his head around the door. His eyes are so wide I can see whites all around them.  
“Could you very kindly make me a coffee, and one for the officer out there, if she wants one?”  
“Yes ma’am.”  
I give him a warm, reassuring smile. “Thank you.”

My chair can’t pull in under my desk because of the rifle in the way, so I perch on the front of the chair, tucking my waist right up to the edge of the desk and my legs into the space around Vulpes, to try to prevent a line of sight if one of the officers gets up and starts strolling around. 

Under the desk, Vulpes kisses my knee. A proper kiss is never silent, and though the sound is very soft, I hear it. 

I lean forward and beam at the officers. Almost flirty. As though the very sight of them delights me.  
“So. How can I help you, sergeant.”  
Ferguson’s eyes drill holes through me. “You can tell us where your client is hiding.”

Why, quite simple. Right between my legs, officer. Pushing my skirt up and kissing my inner thigh, as we speak.

I make a ‘who-knows?’ face. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Are you even sure he’s still in the city? Because if I were him, I would have run for it.”  
“We think he is still in the city. He was travelling with an injured man, Cato Hostillius, who was busted up good and proper, couldn’t have made it far. Neither of them have been seen since the escape. None of the guards saw them pass through the city gates. No one in the Bazaar saw them leave. We don’t think they did leave. We think they’re right here, biding their time.”

Ha, they’re right here alright. At least one of them is.

Ferguson goes on, “And we think someone’s helping them. There’s no way they could have pulled off that escape alone. So they’ve got a man on the inside. Or a woman.” He looks at me pointedly.  
“You,” his colleague adds helpfully.  
“Gentlemen, even if I were ‘on the inside’, and I promise you that I’m not, I wouldn’t have the expertise required to engineer a prison escape like that.”  
“Oh, I disagree, I think you have plenty of smarts, Tricky Treichler,” Furguson says, placing an unfriendly-sounding emphasis on my nickname.

Vulpes’s tongue glides up my inner thigh.

“Well, if it is the case that he’s still in town, all I can say is that I have no idea where his hideout is. I barely know the man. He was a client of mine for less than 48 hours. I visited him only twice, he told me nothing of any significance, and I never met Cato Hostillius. I’m sorry, but I just can’t help you.”  
“Do you have the notes you took from those meetings?”  
Oh, shit. 

Keep it casual. “Yes, for what they’re worth, but they don’t say anything interesting. He refused to discuss the charges with me.”  
“Hand them over.”  
“Client files are confidential, sergeant.”  
“Not to us.”  
“Yes, even to you.”

Vulpes pushes gently at my knees, parting them wider. I acquiesce, unable to push back without risking the officers noticing something.

The sergeant and I stare at each other. “Your lack of respect for authority is starting to fuck me off, Treichler.”  
“The law is the law, sergeant. Same law that confers your authority, holding it in check to prevent misuse.”  
“I don’t need a lecture on how to behave from a woman who went into a prison cell at night and got herself fucked in the ass.”

Under the desk, Vulpes pauses.

My jaw drops at this. “What?”  
“You heard me. We’ve got three separate reports of inappropriate behaviour by you. From three different witnesses. You sucked a guard’s cock at the gate, you sucked off Inculta in the conference room, and then you let Inculta fuck your ass in his cell.”

I’m stunned. “I don’t know what people are telling you but that is bullshit, sergeant. Straight up bullshit.”  
Ferguson takes a small notepad out of his pocket. “Private Bryant, front gate duty, says you suck him off in the guard house sometimes.”  
Bryant is the guy I once represented on a gang-rape charge. “Bullshit. Bryant is a creep. Besides, there’s always three guards on duty at the gate. There’s no way I could do that without the others seeing. Let me guess, you couldn’t get any specific dates or times from him? No names of anyone else who saw this? No independent corroboration whatsoever?”  
“Not yet.” Ferguson doesn’t look bothered. “I’m prepared to accept that one probably is bullshit. But there are two more. Kind of a co-incidence, don’t you think? What you might call a pattern.”  
“A pattern of character assassination. Alright, then. What are they?”  
“Custody sergeant at the prison says that after your first interview with Inculta in the prison conference room, when he came to get you out of there you… just a sec… “looked flushed and excited”, he reads from his notebook, “she was wiping her mouth, and Inculta was zipping up.”

Below me, the hiatus is over. Vulpes’ fingers find their way under my panties and pull them slowly but irresistibly aside. He strokes, and finds fresh moisture. One finger slides slowly up, then down.

“So you’re saying the guard saw me touch my mouth, as everyone does without thinking about it a hundred times a day, like after they sneeze, or if a hair is tickling them. And he saw my client adjust himself, as men do when their balls itch, or they’re hanging to the left and decide they want to hang to the right,” I say derisively. “What a bunch of crap. You seriously think I have public sex with my clients in the prison? I can have sex with anyone I want, anytime I want, outside the prison. I don’t have to risk my career for it.”

“Maybe high-risk sex with dangerous men is your thing,” says Ferguson evenly.

Vulpes’ tongue takes over from his fingers, to lick my apex.

The sergeant looks at his notebook again. “Next one. Private Fontaine says you begged to be allowed to visit Inculta in his cell.”  
“Pff,” I scoff. “I didn’t ‘beg’. I just asked.”  
Ferguson shrugs. “He describes you as wearing a revealing, low cut dress that, his words, “showed off her tits something amazing”, and that when he later went to collect you, you were on all fours, amazing tits out, dress up, and, I’m quoting here, “Inculta was pounding her ass, like really giving it to her, and she was wailing and moaning and yelling at him to go harder”. So, Lieutenant. Three allegations, all consistent. What have you got to say about that?”  
I shake my head. “They’re not consistent. They’re only internally consistent with a juvenile ‘Tricky Treichler is a dirty slut’ narrative. But there’s no evidential consistency. That last one is as ridiculous as the others. Inculta was in insolation. Those cells don’t have doors, just laser bars. If I was wailing and moaning and yelling like he says, every other prisoner down there would have heard it. Have any of them said so?”  
Ferguson just looks at me.  
“And I mean ask them if they noticed anything unusual, not ask them a yes-no question,” I spell out.  
“I know how to do my job, Treichler. It’s whether you do, that’s in question here.”  
“Sergeant Ferguson, be serious. I think you know this is all a stitch-up.”  
He looks at me appraisingly. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. But you’re suspended from duty, without pay, as of right now and until we finish our investigation.”

Under my desk, Vulpes stops trying to make me have an orgasm in front of the officers and resumes the gentle kissing again.

Ferguson stands up. His initially aggressive demeanour has been replaced with a calmer one. “Lieutenant Treichler, we’ll be back to talk to you again, but right now we need you to come with us and show us inside every room of this building.”  
“Uh, of course.” My skirt is pushed right up. Would it be too suspicious if I suggest Tommy shows them around instead? Probably, yes. 

I’m just trying to unobtrusively smooth my skirt back down in preparation for standing up when there’s a huge _BOOM_ sound and the whole building rocks slightly. Everyone freezes. A second later, little bits of debris that sound like stones start raining down on the roof.

Ferguson runs out the front door, bellowing at his juniors who scramble after him. Tommy and I go and stand at the door, looking out to see what happened. There’s a thick column of smoke rising from the court house. 

Or at least, where the court used to be. It’s just rubble now.

I go back inside and lock my door again. Vulpes is putting on his equipment, getting ready to leave.  
He slings the rifle over his shoulder and looks at me.  
“That stuff wasn’t true, you know.”  
“I know. I was there.” He comes over close and strokes my hair. “Lori, the first and easiest point of attack on a female’s credibility is always against her virtue. It’s a very old tradition. What you need to be thinking about now is what their second move will be. Because there will be one, be sure of that.”  
“Did you see last night’s paper?”  
“Yes. Someone has it in for you.” Then he smiles. “You look good in red.”

I wait. If he says I wore it better, I will kill him.

He nods goodbye and walks out the door.


	33. The scene of a crime

As soon as Vulpes leaves, Tommy knocks on my door and opens it without waiting. He’s carrying a cup of coffee, which he puts down on my desk. I’d completely forgotten about requesting it.

Turns out it’s lukewarm and Tommy is really here to talk.  
“You hid him under your desk?”  
“Yeah.”  
Tommy gives me an old-fashioned look.  
“I know,” I say, shaking my head. “Not very dignified.” And Tommy has no idea quite how undignified it got.  
Thankfully, he doesn’t enquire further. “Did you know he was coming here?”  
“No.”  
“Scared the living daylights out of me when he walked in the door.”  
“I can imagine. But I don’t think he’s a danger to you.” I say, a little disingenuously, to make Tomasz feel better. I have no real idea who he’s a danger to, but an educated guess would be any and everyone.  
“Was that explosion a bomb?”  
“I think so.”  
“Are there going to be more?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“You think he did it?”  
Interesting question. Here the educated guess is yes. Or he at least knew it was going to happen; because he didn’t seem surprised at all, when the explosion went off. But all I say is, “I don’t know, Tommy. Maybe.”  
“Lori, what’s going on? The city’s gone crazy.”  
I have no answer.  
“I need to go home to make sure my family’s ok.” Tommy’s expression is increasingly distraught. 

I send him to get his things together, and quickly take out the file note that Vulpes wrote on. Whereupon I’m momentarily perplexed as to what to do. I already told the MPs that I had a note of the meeting, so I can’t destroy the whole thing, lest I’m called upon by a judge to produce it. But on the other hand, the courthouse is destroyed, and it’s too damning a piece of writing to keep around. What to do? Tear the last paragraph off? Keep it hidden somewhere? Or destroy it and never have the pleasure of reading it again?

I read it one last time, commit it to memory as best I can, then take out a lighter and burn it.

Tommy and I lock up the office and I walk him home, while we argue about who’s walking who home. 

The mood on the street is even more surreal than before. Soldiers running everywhere, shouting. Tommy and I walk fast and try to keep our heads down.

At the Borowicz family’s apartment, Tommy’s mother looks frightened, but invites me in nonetheless. Whatever she’s cooking smells good, but I politely extricate myself and head home.

Not that Tommy was worth much as a human shield, but without his company I feel suddenly exposed. I scoot back towards my building as fast as I can go.

There are MPs and soldiers swarming all over my building, weapons bristling. I’m a full block away when I’m spotted, a shout goes up and every single soldier there turns as a man and trains his barrel on me. The MPs start running towards me, bawling orders that I can’t process. It’s so confusing that I just drop my briefcase and raise my hands, even though “hands up” isn’t one of the orders, I don’t think. It’s more like GETONTHEGROUNDFACEDOWN! SPREADEMNOWNOWNOW!

I’m tackled to the dirt and piled onto by so many men I can barely breathe. They’re all grasping my limbs and tearing at my clothes, looking for i.d, or weapons, or explosives, I have no idea. I close my eyes and focus on getting what oxygen I can into my lungs.

The weight lifts off me, and I’m handcuffed behind my back and dragged to my feet. A crowd has gathered, watching in shock. This isn’t a sight often seen in low-crime NCR City.

I’m dragged towards my building, and up the stairs to my apartment. My front door has been kicked in and the lock is hanging loose and broken. The men dragging me hand me over to another MP, whom I know professionally. Captain Renata Herrera, the most senior MP in the city.

“Hello, Lieutenant Treichler,” she greets me. Familiar but not friendly.  
“Captain Herrera.” I nod back, trying to look dignified with cuffs on and street dirt on my face. “What’s this about?” But I think I know.

Turns out I don’t know. 

“You’re pretty famous for owning a red dress.”  
I blink. “What?”  
“Where’s the dress right now?” Captain Herrera fixes me with a piercing eye.  
“In my closet?”  
“Show me.”  
We walk into my bedroom and I indicate the closet. Can’t open it, cuffed behind my back. One of Herrera’s guys opens it for me. The dress isn’t there.  
“It should be hanging on that hanger, there,” I say, nodding towards an empty hanger. “Is all this about a burglary?” For a moment an implausible image of wild-eyed Vulpesitas raiding my closet crosses my mind.

Captain Herrera snorts mirthlessly. “No.” She shakes her head and for a second looks genuinely sad. “No. Follow me.” She walks out onto my balcony. I follow her. Lying on my balcony, propped on a tripod, is a completely alien object. A sniper rifle. A shiny black one that looks like it came fresh out of the armoury. It’s pointing in the direction of the military base exercise yard. I follow the line of sight. Abnormal things are happening down there too. There’s a stage, where General Oliver was scheduled to promote Ronald Curtis to Colonel earlier today. And on the stage is a large, uneven red shape. Not a dress. Blood, about a whole life’s worth.

“What happened?” I whisper, dreading the answer.  
“General Oliver was shot dead, twenty-five minutes ago, from this balcony, by a woman in a red dress.”  
“What?” I can hardly process it. “How do you..?”  
“Muzzle flash. About a dozen people were facing this way and saw it. They saw the flash, then a figure in a bright red dress jumped up and ran inside this door here.” She indicates my sliding door. “We came running, and found no one here and no red dress. Then, a suitable interval later, you come strolling down the street, by yourself, wearing something else, as though you’re just coming home.”  
“I am just coming home. And that doesn’t make sense. Why would I deliberately don a dress that I’m famous for to commit a murder?”  
“I don’t think you were trying to hide, at the time. You changed your mind after you did it. Or you wouldn’t have shot from your own balcony either. I think it meant something. Lee Oliver, and that dress, and you. Some significance. Were you wearing it the first time you and he got together?”  
“We were never together… what are you talking about?”  
“Oliver’s personal bodyguards both say he paid you a private visit yesterday. Was it to break things off with you?”  
“What? No!”

This is getting so far out of control. I take a deep breath and collect myself. “Captain Herrera, pause there a second. Please. I was not having an affair with General Oliver. He came to see me yesterday about an issue he was having that he thought I might be able to help with. He’s never been to my office before that, in fact I’ve never even been alone in a room with him before that. Never. Secondly, I have an alibi, I’ve been at work and my assistant Tomasz Borowicz can testify to that. I just walked him home, I said goodbye literally minutes before your men saw me.”  
Herrera says dourly, “We both know there are a lot of reasons why your assistant may be motivated to lie for you. Not least of which, you pay him.”  
“Hold on a sec,” I say, a thought striking me. Obvious. “Did you say twenty-five minutes ago?”  
“Closer to thirty, now.”  
“I have the perfect alibi.”  
“Making this the perfect crime?” she says sardonically.  
“Was the General shot before or after the explosion?”  
“Couple minutes before.”  
“Aha!” If my hands weren’t cuffed behind my back I would have stabbed a finger of victory into the air. “Call MP Sergeant John Ferguson on your radio there, because right up until the explosion he was in my office, along with two other MPs. He had his eyes right on me. He only left after the explosion happened.”

Herrera looks at me sceptically, but pulls out her radio anyway and makes the call out. A few seconds later, Ferguson’s voice crackles over the radio, confirming that he was with me.  
“No doubt about that? I mean any possibility of error, no matter how small?” Herrera queries.  
Ferguson answers firmly in the negative.  
“You sure you know what she looks like? Could it have been someone else in her office pretending to be her?”  
Negative.

Herrera stares at me for a long moment. Then she exhales in frustration and turns away, grunting at one of her subordinates to uncuff me.

I stand there, rubbing my wrists, and wondering if I should stay or go. And where would I go. The lostness of the hermit, evicted from the hermitage.

“Don’t go anywhere,” says Herrera over her shoulder, solving my quandary. I sit down on the sofa. 

So much for me thinking it had been terribly unlucky timing when MPs had swooped on me today, while Vulpes was in my office. And stayed for so damn long. Turns out it was the luckiest timing ever.

General Lee Oliver has been a fixture for so long. I can hardly believe he’s dead.

But dead he is. And we only have one General, so someone else will have to be promoted. Colonel James Hsu or Colonel Cassandra Moore. Both of them are away on the war campaign, though. Colonel Hsu left six days ago, the morning after the Olivers’ dinner party. Moore’s been gone for months. So the city is without leadership, unshepherded and vulnerable, just when bombs are exploding.

A thought strikes me. “Captain, did the General finish promoting Curtis to Colonel before the shooting?”  
“Yeah, long since. He’d done about 15 or 20 other promotions after that.”  
“Any other Colonels? Promoted, I mean.”  
“No. Why, you think Curtis arranged the hit, to go from major to colonel to general in one day?” Herrera scoffs.  
“Well, he is the only colonel in the city right now.”  
“Yeah, and he was going to be the only colonel in the city even if the general was alive.”  
“But you see my point. He’s now the highest ranking officer in the city.”


	34. The fabulous career of Colonel Curtis

Captain Herrera stares at me a moment, then shakes her head and says flatly, “Don’t buy it. He didn’t need to do it straight away like that. Oliver obviously liked him a hell of a lot, so why wouldn’t Curtis have waited a while, settled into his new authority? No. Don’t buy it. I’d say there’s a way more obvious contender.”  
I know who’s she’s going to suggest, and I’m not wrong.  
“The same people who must have set off the explosion. Those escaped Legion bastards.”  
“We don’t know that,” I protest, but it’s weak. This town was peaceful until Vulpes and Cato arrived. We in the NCR prefer to do our murder and mayhem far from our own city walls. 

Herrera doesn’t even bother to respond.

Eventually the MPs finish examining every inch of my apartment, take the sniper rifle and leave.

Thinking about it after they leave, though, I realise I was wrong. The town stopped being peaceful when Boone arrived. The killing of Major Gilles was the first wave.

Wandering around, putting things back where they belong and generally returning my apartment to its pre-crime-scene state, I ponder the enigma that is Craig Boone. A mysteriously dead wife. A mysteriously dead ex-commanding officer. A mysteriously missing older brother. An uncommunicative, not-always-rational man, mired in bitterness, whose primary skill is shooting people from afar. 

He’s not the most obvious candidate for the courthouse bombing, Vulpes is, Captain Herrera’s undeniably right about that. 

But still. Vulpes was with me when the General was shot, and Cato wouldn’t have been capable of getting in and out fast enough, according to Ferguson’s description of his injuries. 

I make a mental note to find out if Boone was still with Dr Gannon at the time of the shooting; and also if he has skills with explosives.

The afternoon fades away. There are no more explosions. I play music on my gramophone, and play scenarios in my head, every different combination I can think of, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened. 

☣☣☣

Cato snuffled softly, in a drug-assisted sleep. Vulpes glanced at him sharply. They cannot make noise in here when Picus is not home. Soft snuffling was acceptable. Any more loud snoring would have to be interrupted again.

Not that this was Picus’ home, officially. He had a bunk at the barracks with Bravo Company, his own personal battalion of the NCR army. This was just an apartment where he brought his girlfriends. Basically a brothel, given Picus’ eye-popping levels of sexual activity. But Vulpes had not commented on that.

Vulpes was for a long time Picus’ commander and mentor, and Picus still spoke deferentially to him, still cheerfully obeyed his orders, but Vulpes saw now that those days had gone. Now, Vulpes was relying on Picus’ patronage for his and Cato’s protection. Now, Picus was more powerful than his tutor ever was.

Which meant that Picus was doing things his way, the boot polish and medals way; and Vulpes could come along for the ride, or get out of town.

The apartment stocked an oversupply of condoms, and a remarkable array of pornography and other sex-related paraphernalia, but no books, only the previous fortnight’s worth of _Bugle_ issues, all of which Vulpes had already read. There was nothing to do here but jerk off and think. And jerking off was awkward with Cato around. 

It was too risky to go out again, at least during daylight hours. 

Which was particularly unfortunate because Vulpes was burning with a powerful energy, like nothing he had felt in years. He felt high, buzzing, and intensely alive. 

Normally he might have enjoyed the silence. But being cooped up in that state of excitement was frustrating as hell.

He moved close to the side of the shuttered window and spied out through the slats, watching the city.

Across the road, the little bar was closed. Vulpes still didn’t know what Lori had been looking at, yesterday when he’d followed her. She came to the bar, bought a drink and then leant on the bar and looked right at this apartment for a long time. Did she somehow know he was staying here? Was she waiting for him? It was a mystery, but no doubt he’d find out soon enough. He had intended to ask her earlier today at her office, but due to circumstance had ended up using his tongue for other, less illuminating but vastly more satisfying, purposes.

The taste of her was still on his lips. Her scent was still on his fingers. He closed his eyes and sniffed at them, immediately back in her office, between her soft thighs, intimate with her hidden places.

 _Frustration_. He opened his eyes again.

There were still a few wisps of smoke and dust rising from the shattered remains of the courthouse. Another of Picus’ decisions. Vulpes would not have chosen it, being where Lori spent much of her days, but Picus had his reasons and Vulpes couldn’t argue with them. It was exactly what Vulpes would have done, if he were not now biased.

There was an argument going on down the street. A large group of bottle-blonde girls, all dressed in red, were heckling a troop of soldiers, and being heckled in return. They were too far away to hear what was being said, but there was a lot of finger-pointing and posturing. The girls were laughing and smacking each others’ hands. The soldiers were pointing to their temples, either to reference madness, or a bullet to the head, it was unclear which. Possibly both.

The Vulpesitas, presumably. More manifestations of strange phenomena in this city. 

All things considered, the experience of visiting this place was not at all as he had expected it would be.

NCR City, the jewel in New California Republic’s sordid crown, the centrepiece of an empire he despised. He had never wanted to come here, preferring to sabotage them from a distance. If he was honest, he dreaded the thought. But then Cato had gotten caught, and he could not let it happen again. What had happened to them in detention in Arizona. 

They had never spoken of it since. Vulpes didn’t even know if Cato had experienced the same tortures as himself. Probably not as extreme, as Cato had been able to drag Vulpes through the fire and out of there, whereas by that stage Vulpes was barely coherent, incapable even of rescuing himself let alone anyone else.

So he came to the city, and submitted himself to be taken into prison, fully expecting some new horrors to be visited on him in the time it took him to get Cato out. That had been one of the hardest things he had ever done, which was saying something for a man legendary for the steely quality of his balls.

But to his great surprise and immeasurable relief, he had not been brutalized in prison here. Not even harassed, particularly. The tooth knocked out in the scuffle when he was arrested happened almost by accident. A well-phrased insult to an MP, resulting in a rifle butt to the face, nothing special - first time he’d lost a tooth from it.

Then the city itself. It was common knowledge in the Legion that NCR City was similar to New Vegas, a cesspit full of organised crime, disease, drug addicts, prostitutes, and drunken off-duty soldiers vomiting in the streets. 

But it was nothing like that. Though in a state of panic now, when he first arrived the city had been quiet and calm, with a few bars but no sign of any public drunkenness. There were prostitutes in this town, to be sure, but they plied their trade behind closed, unmarked doors. 

Besides which, the sense of fiery moral outrage that Vulpes had once felt at the very thought of the for-profit sex trade had faded with age, and was now reduced to a mild sense of disapproval. Alcohol was the same. Though he didn’t drink and couldn’t see himself ever changing his mind about that, if the citizenry took it in moderation, well, it was hard to become worked up about the issue.

No, the city was tidy, well maintained, strictly organised, and efficient. It was, he was taken aback to realise, not unlike how it would be if he ran it.

No surprise, then, that Picus fitted in so well here. The younger man had been his protégé, handpicked by Vulpes’ for his elite unit many years ago; then about eight years ago secreted into the lower ranks of the NCR army as a mole-cum-sleeper agent. He had performed spectacularly well. So much so, that in retrospect the Legion could have sat back, stayed out of the NCR’s way, and Picus alone could have won the war for them.

As it was, Picus was winning for himself. Vulpes felt deep respect for his erstwhile student. He wanted to leave the city as soon as Cato was able to travel, allowing Picus to progress his own agenda free of the hindrance of protecting two marked men.

Meeting Lori out on the hilltop, it was immediately apparent that she was nothing like any of the NCR personnel he had met in the Mojave. There was none of the arrogance, the inherent-superiority bullshit. She allowed him to see her vulnerability. And she was comfortable in silence with him.

He fell in love, perhaps not at first sight, but at first meeting. She was open, thoughtful, self-effacing, and somehow kind-hearted and hard-headed at the same time. No easy combination. She had suffered loss, and had in turn lost interest in the world; but she was interested in him. Actually interested in knowing him. Most disarming of all, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, even after she learned who he was. 

Today she had passed another test, not only protecting him, with considerable finesse, but putting her reputation, career and liberty at serious risk to do so. Perhaps even life, if it was a capital crime under NCR law to assist someone like him. 

Along the street below the window, two men in their 30s who looked like brothers were walking, speaking loudly to each other in some sort of Chinese. One carried a very small, swaddled baby, and he kissed the baby’s head tenderly as they passed by. Vulpes felt a small stab of envy and deeply-buried sorrow in his heart. None of his own children had survived.

More troops. Then another parent passed, this time a man with frown lines deeply etched into his face. He had a grizzling son with him, maybe six or seven years old. As Vulpes watched the child stopped abruptly, dragging on his father’s hand. For which small transgression the child got a hard slap across the ear, and dragged away, howling. Nearby soldiers looked, and some shot bad looks at the father. 

The juxtaposition of the two men at opposite ends of the fathering spectrum brought back ancient memories of Vulpes’ own father, an angry and vindictive man. Vulpes had regularly been the subject of his violent outbursts. They were always “caused” by something Vulpes had done, but the crimes were so trivial. Didn’t eat his meal fast enough, for example. to His mother utterly failed to protect him, just tried hopelessly to verbally defuse situations that were well past any conversational solution. Vulpes, innately stubborn, but still smaller than his father, would end up battered. Then his mother would wait until his father was asleep or gone out, then come to see him, pat him on the head, and patch him up if necessary. “Your father just preferred how things were before you were born,” she once explained. Vulpes had spent years trying to work out how that was supposed to make him feel better.

His mother should have taken her son and left, but she was too weak-willed. So Vulpes had left by himself. Rumours had reached their Utah township that the dreaded Caesar’s Legion was near. Everyone was afraid, except him. He was excited. This was his escape. He took nothing with him, just went out one day and never came back. He smiled, now, to think of that happy day. He had never regretted it.

☣☣☣

In the evening the Bugle arrived, making a small thud as the delivery kid tossed it against the apartment door. Vulpes waited until he saw the delivery kid exit the street door, then tiptoed through the apartment, collected the paper and carried it back into the saferoom, where Cato was stirring. Vulpes knew what the headline would be. BOMB TERRIFIES CITY!

Or not. He had to stop making predictions. LATE NEWS: KIMBALL FOUND DEAD was the headline. President Kimball, not often seen in public lately, was found dead at his home, where he lived alone. Preliminary, unofficial accounts suggested accidental self-asphyxiation. Equipment the Bugle deemed it inappropriate to describe was found with his body. The city was now presidentless, and there was no deputy, as the deputy had died of a suspected heart-attack two months earlier, and Kimball had not got around to appointing a successor. “Aaron Kimball was a truly great man and the city will sorely feel his absence, but the situation will be resolved soon and in the meantime citizens are urged not to panic, says Colonel Curtis,” the article concluded.

Page two was about General Oliver. OUR BELOVED HERO - KILLED IN COLD BLOOD. Vulpes skimmed through the accolades to the facts. Shot out in the open, long distance, by an unknown assailant, as he gave a speech after the latest round of promotions.

Then he saw that Lori had a heading of her own. **The Scarlet Woman.** “The shooter, seen by several witnesses although at great range, appeared to be wearing a red dress, and used the balcony of notorious criminal lawyer Lori “Tricky” Treichler to make the shot. The sniper rifle was still there when the Military Police arrived. When Treichler appeared at the scene a short time later, she was interviewed by MPs, who say they have no comment at this time. Many questions remain. Did the colour red signify the Legion? Could a desk jockey like Treichler have made such an incredible shot, estimated by MPs at 300m? Or was it the terrorist Vulpes Inculta, dressed in Treichler’s iconic scarlet cocktail dress, as several witnesses have alleged?” 

Oh ha, ha.

“The untimely death of our General leaves the city desperately weakened, but authorities are investigating, and citizens are urged not take the law into their own hands, says Colonel Curtis.”

On page three the explosion finally made the news. It was a bomb made of plastic explosives, of the same type recently stolen from the armoury, mixed together with a foreign type, investigators said. The fragments of the detonator used indicated it was home-made. The courthouse was entirely destroyed, but the neighbouring buildings miraculously survived unscathed apart from completely blown-out windows. The bomb experts thought the explosives must have been inside the courthouse, probably under the floorboards. They estimated it would have used about half the stolen amount. Therefore, there was likely to be a second device somewhere in the city, they warned. “Citizens are urged to keep a close watch on their children, and to stay at home unless venturing out is strictly necessary, says Colonel Curtis.”

Vulpes skimmed the rest of the paper but there was no other significant news. 

Then he went back to the window and watched the sun go down, turning the horizon vermillion before leaving a blackness pricked by a trillion stars.

Things were going too far. He had to get her out of the city.


	35. Shh! - A secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: A severely violent sexual assault is described (as something that happened in the past) in this chapter. Read with caution.

_Vulpes and Boone stand ten feet apart, bodies sideways, outstretched arms pointing guns at each other. I turn and walk away, unwilling to be their audience. I hear two loud bangs._

Bam bam! “Lori, you there? It’s Arcade.” Dr Gannon’s voice from the other side of my front door startles me awake. I must have fallen asleep on my sofa. It’s completely dark in the room, not even moonlight in the skies outside my balcony door, which I can feel from the cool night air must still be open.

I struggle up, feel around for the lightswitch and turn it on. Blinding. One hand over my eyes, I open the apartment door to let Gannon and Boone in.

“Were you asleep in your work clothes?” Gannon asks, observing my rumpled condition.  
“It’s been a long day,” I mutter. Still half asleep.  
“This was outside,” Gannon passes me the evening’s Bugle, still rolled up.  
“Thanks.” I toss it on my coffee table.  
“Not going to open it?”  
“No.”  
“Good. Don’t.”  
“Why, does it sing my praises again?”  
“I’m surprised there wasn’t a lynch mob at your door,” Gannon says. “It basically said you shot General Oliver.”  
“What!?”  
“Don’t pay attention to that bullshit,” Boone says.  
“It also says that Kimball is dead, and that the bomb in the courthouse was an inside job. As in, the explosives were stolen from the NCR armoury.”

This is a lot to process. “Oh shit…” I say, thinking about Miller. My client who stole explosives from the armoury. He told me he sold them to “higher-ups”. Although he’s only a corporal, so a hell of a lot of people are higher up than him. Even me. “Did you just say Kimball is dead?”  
“Yup. Not that anyone’ll miss him, particularly. I’d say Oliver is a much bigger loss.”  
“Cause of death?”  
“Auto-erotic self-asphyxiation,” Gannon says, keeping an admirably straight face. Must have learned that in medical school. Behind him, Boone sniggers.

Boone’s in the same fatigues he was wearing yesterday. Gannon is dressed in a dark red suit with a shiny red tie. He sees me looking at it, and explains, “I’m trying to reclaim the colour red. Or at least defuse it.”  
“Going out with me probably won’t help. I’m public enemy number 1 at the moment.”  
“Number 3, don’t get big-headed about it,” Gannon teases. “Come on. We should go.”  
“Let me just go get changed,” I say, heading to my closet.

Gannon follows me and peers over my shoulder into my closet.  
“What to wear?” I say. “Definitely nothing red. What kind of place is Shh!?”  
“It’s this kind of place,” says Gannon, reaching in past me and pulling a slinky green sequinned dress off its hanger. “This is the opposite of red. You’ll look like a mermaid in this.”  
“You mean with scales?”  
“Er, yeah, but, y’know, sexier. Like a sexy, sexy fish.”  
We both laugh and I shoo him out of the room to change into the dress. He’s right. It shows off my curves and angles in all the right ways and I do feel sexy in it. 

When I come out Gannon and Boone both nod. “I chose well,” Gannon pronounces gravely. “You look Shh!tunning.”  
Boone looks sideways at him.  
“FabuliShh!, even,” Gannon adds, wiggling his eyebrows.  
Boone rolls his eyes; but it’s affectionate. 

Gannon is such a feel-good guy, just being in his company makes a person start to feel better about life. I wonder if I might be able to keep him as a friend. It would require overturning my no-friends moratorium, but maybe it’s time I did that.

We head out. There are no clouds, only stars, and it’s damn dark, being almost 11pm. There are hardly any people on the streets. All heeding Colonel Curtis’ warning.

On the way, Gannon tells me we are going to meet a colleague of his there, a doctor named Maneesha Henry who once worked at the internment camp in Arizona that Vulpes and Cato escaped from. 

Henry was there when the fire swept through the centre, killing many of the prisoners, Gannon tells me, and she came back to NCR City very soon after that. She’s never talked with him about what she saw there, and the extent to which she seems to avoid the topic makes Gannon think there is something there worth finding out. He asked her, but she just frowned and shook her head. He asked her if she’d tell me, and she kept frowning, but eventually nodded.

Boone’s been quiet so far. Then I realise he’s always quiet around Gannon. He’s happy to let Gannon do the talking for him.  
“Hey Boone, did you learn explosives in the army?” I ask. Not very subtle but I doubt I need to be.  
“No.”  
“And where were you at the time Oliver was getting shot?” I ask, in a jokey voice, but I’m interested to hear the answer.  
“He was with me,” Gannon says. “He didn’t blow up the courthouse or shoot Oliver, Lori, if that’s what you’re getting at. I suspect it was your other client who did those things.”  
I shake my head. “No. Well, the courthouse maybe, probably, but he was with me when the shooting happened.”  
“With you?” Gannon’s eyes open very wide. “He was with you? Doing what, exactly?”  
“I dunno, what was Boone doing with you at that same time?” I tease back.  
“Fuck off,” grunts Boone. “And why was he with you? Are you hiding him?” He stops walking.  
“No I am not, and no I don’t know where his hideout is.”  
“You better not.”  
“And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”  
Boone takes an aggressive step towards me.  
“Friends, please,” Gannon steps between us. “Why the agro? Boone, remember I’ve told you before that it’s not nice to threaten people. Lori, please understand that many of us who’ve lived in the Mojave have legitimate reasons for hating the Legion, and Vulpes Inculta in particular. It would be good if you didn’t needle Boone on that subject. Ok?” He looks back and forth between us.

“Ok,” I readily agree. Boone refuses to say ok, but he eventually gives a jerk of the head that Gannon deems adequate, and we continue on our way.

After taking a series of turns in the older part of town, where the buildings are smaller and the streets narrower, we go down a very nondescript lane between two closed businesses and find an anonymous-looking metal door. Gannon knocks. After a pause, the door opens and a very large man fills the doorframe. So large I can’t even see past him.  
“Arcade,” the man nods, standing back to make way for us to enter. “Miss.” We sidle in past him. Boone gets a stare but no greeting.

To my surprise, the inside looks like nothing special. I had expected… well, I’m not sure, but something bizarre, to justify the vague rumours of deep weirdness I’d heard. It’s just a plain L-shaped room, with a bar on the inner corner of the L, and a couple of doors marked “Toilet” down the long end of the room. There’s a tiny stage on the short side, with a microphone, an amp and a chair. The rest is just c-shaped booths and small tables and stools, undecorated.

The man behind the bar has short spiky dyed-black hair, fine features in a narrow face, and bright eyes. He’s extremely pierced. He looks slightly familiar. I think I might have defended him on something once, long ago.

“Jip,” Gannon greets him, striding up to the bar and shaking his hand. 

Ah, now I remember. Jip Bishop, the young black sheep of the old Bishop crime family. Early in my career I defended him on a charge of drug-dealing. Which is exactly the kind of thing the Bishops have always been into, but Jip is known not to get along with the rest of the family all that well. Jet, I think it was. Small amount. The “dealing” in question was really just sharing it with a boyfriend of his. Who unfortunately had more than he could handle, went home off his head, and his parents made a complaint. Young Jip ended up getting arrested and outed at the same time.

But now he’s around 30 and the owner of a sort-of-famous bar, so I guess he’s doing alright. He gives a wide grin as he shakes Arcade’s hand. “Arcade. How the hell are ya?” Even the tip of his tongue is pierced.  
“Oh, you know me, same old,” Gannon says lightly. Not mentioning that he is on bail for murder.

Gannon introduces me and Boone. I act as though I’m meeting Jip for the first time. Standard practice – clients don’t usually appreciate having their encounters with the law highlighted in social situations. He doesn’t remind me, but I get a nod and a smile as he shakes my hand. 

Gannon shoots the breeze with Jip while getting us some drinks. Boone and I choose a relatively secluded booth on the short side of the L, and sit down. 

“You weren’t really with Inculta today, were you?” Boone asks me.  
“I was.”  
“What’d he want?”  
Good question. “I don’t honestly know.”  
“You shoulda turned him in.”  
“I can’t. He’s a client of mine.”  
Boone shakes his head, looking at me like I’m beyond help. “You’re makin’ a mistake lettin’ a man like that get anywhere near you, client or no.”

The door opens, and at the bar Gannon quickly turns to look, obviously expecting his colleague. But it’s a man, smallish like Jip but more muscular, who walks across the room and goes behind the bar. He has the weirdest haircut I have ever seen. All shaved on top, with a long section on one side, greased and laid carefully across the shaved top of his skull so it meets the ear on the far side. Carefully separated in places to display the shaved bits underneath. But he isn’t bald – the shaved hair is a couple of millimetres long, and plenty thick. It’s a deliberate recreation of an insecure bald man’s style. Like a work of art.

“Who’s that?” I ask Gannon when he brings out drink over.  
“Who just came in? That’s Jerimi, the other barman and co-owner.”  
I’m about to enquire further when the door opens again and a woman in a white lab coat walks in. She has very long, thick black hair and a sober expression. She strides right over to us and sits down next to Gannon without any greeting.  
She looks at me. “Hello, Ms Treichler. I’m Dr Maneesha Henry. Arcade asked me to meet with you, but I don’t have long, my shift starts at 12.”

Henry has that very succinct, clinical manner that doctors often use. I don’t much like it. Gannon doesn’t do it, and I don’t know why anyone would. It basically says “Do not waste my precious time, lesser being.” Which would be alright if I was actually wasting her time, but she only just got here. 

It makes me want to waste her time; but that would be churlish.  
“Thanks for meeting me, and it’s nice to meet you,” I say instead. “I understand that you were posted to the Mojave Desert two years ago, when the battle of Hoover Dam was being fought against the Legion.”  
“Correct.”  
“And after the battle you were the medical officer at the internment camp where captured enemy soldiers were being held.”  
“If you could call them soldiers. Some of them were just kids. None of them seemed to have any formal training. They barely even had uniforms, just scavenged junk.”  
Boone sniggers at that. Dr Henry turns to give him a cold look. “And you are..?”  
“This is Craig Boone,” Gannon introduces him. “An old friend of mine.”  
Dr Henry’s eyes narrow. “Craig Boone who shot Brenda Gilles?”  
“No, he’s off the hook for that now. They charged someone else,” Gannon says dismissively, glancing at his watch. “Anyway, about the internment camp.”

Dr Henry’s laser-stare returns to me. “What do you want to know about it.”  
“Did you treat a man named Vulpes Inculta there?” I ask.  
“Yes.”  
“And a man named Cato Hostillius?”  
“Yes.”  
I pause. This is hard to say. “Did you see evidence of torture being used against the detainees?”

If she says no, I’ll know she’s lying. She doesn’t know that I’ve seen photos.

Henry keeps staring at me for a few seconds, but her brow furrows deeply. She looks away and takes a long breath. Just at that moment, she doesn’t look hard as nails anymore. She looks human, and very bothered by what she’s thinking about saying.  
_Say it_ , I silently encourage her.  
She looks back up at me, her mouth now an unhappy line. “Yes.”  
“Is it true that Vulpes Inculta’s thumb was cut off there, as part of the torture?”  
“Yes. Most of the others were pretty quick to talk, but they couldn’t get him to. And he was their prize capture. They got frustrated, and then they got creative.”  
“Were the other detainees tortured at all, or just him?”  
“All of them were subjected to…” she breaks off, and rubs her forehead with the fingertips of her right hand. “Look. I saw shit go down there that I’ve never seen anything like, before or since. It was fucking appalling. It was nauseating. I filed a report as soon as I got back to NCR City, full details, but it didn’t go anywhere. Every time I chased it up, I got fobbed off. ‘It’s still under consideration’, was all they would say. Then one day they said it had been decided inappropriate to pursue any action. Water under the bridge, a few bad apples, fog of war, all that shit. So I quit. Till I couldn’t pay my bills anymore, and now I’m back in the fold, and it basically never happened. Except for me. Every detail is burned into my memory forever.”  
“I’ll get you a drink,” Gannon says, sliding out of his seat.

“Nothing alcoholic,” Henry calls after him. She looks back at me. “But to answer your question,” she continues, “they were all tortured to varying degrees, but Inculta took the worst of it. By far. They destroyed him. Frankly I’m amazed that he’s even alive, let alone still active.”  
“Those shitbirds deserved everything they got,” growls Boone.  
“No they didn’t,” Henry says curtly, not bothering to look at him.  
“If you knew what kind of fucking scum they were, you’d know they did,” Boone snarls.  
Henry says slowly and clearly, looking now at Boone, “No one, on this earth, deserves what was done to those men.”  
He stares stonily back at her. “Wrong.”  
Henry suddenly snaps, “Would you like to be forcibly penetrated with a fucking broom handle?”  
Boone’s jaw falls open. Literally.  
Henry leans in towards him and hisses, “Would you like to have your testicles electrocuted? Would you like to be cut, burned and beaten till your eyes swell shut then be gangraped and ejaculated on by half a dozen guys?”  
Boone leans back away from her, his normally immobile face aghast.  
“A broom handle?” I ask, my voice as weak as a child’s.  
“A broom handle.”  
“You saw this?”  
“No, thank fuck. But I saw the aftermath. A lot of blood, commingled with semen and fecal matter, a messed up broom handle, and a very messed up human being.”  
“Oh my god.” I feel sickened.  
“Quite.”

Gannon comes back with Henry’s drink, and immediately sees that something’s terribly wrong. Henry’s eyes are flashing, she looks furious. Boone looks dumbstruck, his mouth still hanging open. I’m sitting here with my hands covering half my face.  
“Who did it?” I ask from behind my hands.  
“I didn’t see, but I can make a pretty good guess.”  
“Who?”  
“The one who didn’t have a dick to do it with. Her name was Simpson.” Dr Henry looks at her watch and stands up. She takes the drink Gannon’s offering her and downs it, then nods goodbye and leaves.

Leaving Boone and I in a shocked silence, and Gannon looking back and forth between us, asking, “What? What’d she say?”

Nether Boone nor I can answer. Gannon lets us be silent for a while, then says, “So, I’m guessing it wasn’t a picnic at the internment camp..?”  
Boone meets my eye for a split second and looks away again. Neither of us wants to say aloud what we just heard. I can’t even get my head around it. How could anyone do such a monstrous thing to another human being? How does anyone survive that being done to them?  
“Lori?” asks Gannon again.

It’s hard to put my thoughts into order. 

Finally, I compose myself. “I don’t think it would be right for me to repeat what Dr Henry just told us. It’s bad enough what happened, but to have people chatting about it afterwards, in a way makes it worse. I feel that’s an unjustifiable breach of his privacy.” I look at Boone. “That goes for you too, Boone. Please, don’t ever repeat it.”  
“Believe me, I’m trying to forget it,” Boone mutters.  
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you over the years, Boone, it’s that you never forget anything,” Gannon says.  
Boone winces. “Yeah. Well, remind me to forget this one.”  
Gannon looks at me. “It’s never easy to know if Boone’s making a deliberate pun or not.”  
“Long story short, serious abuses occurred, Dr Henry filed a report, but it was hushed up,” I tell Gannon.  
“No surprises on the latter point,” says Gannon.  
“I guess not.” 

I feel like my eyes have been opened to a ghostworld that is right here among us. Where atrocities are committed in the name of good. Where our heroes walk a path of darkness while proclaiming righteousness. Where normal-seeming people are keeping hideous secrets, and others are carrying terrible injuries that cannot be seen, only felt.

I put my head in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know where I am. This city does not make sense anymore. The very structure of it is melting around me.

☣☣☣

We retreat into alcohol, and none of us speaks much again until midnight, when the lights dim until the room is almost dark, and strange twangly music comes on.

The big man opens the door, and people come into the bar in a steady stream, filling up the place till within minutes it’s standing room only. They are the strangest collection of people I have ever seen. I don’t recognise anyone, and yet if I had seen any of these people around the city before, even just walking down the street, I would definitely remember. 

Which means they never come out in the daytime. These are midnight people, living unseen in the city, known only to each other. 

They are fascinatingly odd. There are people who look like the burlesque dancers of the pre-war era. People in masks. Women in corsets cinched so tightly they actually resemble hourglasses. Women who look like dapper, dashing men. Men with luscious moustaches and velvet jackets who look like Edwardian dandies. People with tattooed faces, intricately patterned brandings, and all kinds of skin-stretching piercings.

Shh! lives up to its reputation after all.

“Nice crowd,” I say to Gannon, trying to check people out without being obvious about it.  
“Good, isn’t it,” he replies with a smile. “Makes living in NCR City almost civilised.”

The dimmed lights and the music helps. Conversation resumes, and we talk of uncomplicated things. But what Dr Henry said keeps flashing through my head, making me feel ill.

A few minutes later a strange hush sweeps across the crowd. 

The hush allows the music to be clearly heard. A woman sings with a voice soaked in whisky and cigarettes, then dried out in hot desert air.

_Here I go falling down, down, down_  
_My mind is a blank_  
_My head is spinning around and around as I go deep into the funnel of love_

_It’s such a crazy, crazy feelin’ I get weak in the knees_  
_My poor old head is reelin’_  
_As I go deep into the funnel of love_

I picture a swirling vortex opening up in the ground, and me falling into it. 

Around us, people are stepping aside and averting their eyes, as through royalty is coming through. Please let it not be Colonel Curtis. There’s already enough testosterone at my table here with Boone and Gannon.

The crowd parts, and Vulpes Inculta saunters up to the bar. 

He’s in a three-piece suit and a hat. Like the clothes I saw him in this morning, the suit is spacious on him, but he still looks fine. He leans an elbow on the bar, casually scans the room, sees us, and lets his eyes rest on me.

No one moves. Everyone in the whole room is looking at him. Except Boone, who’s slumped down, staring at nothing, oblivious. Still trying to forget.

The barmen are staring too. I watch Jerimi lean toward Jip, and Jip murmur something in his ear without taking his eyes off the interloper. Jerimi puts one hand on the gun holstered at his waist, and approaches Vulpes. Everyone holds their breath. The feeling in the room is electric. 

Then Jerimi asks Vulpes what’ll it be, and the crowd breathes again. 

Vulpes says something very softly, and Jerimi nods, brings him a purified water, takes money, gives change, and everything goes back to normal.

Vulpes takes his hat off and lays it on the bar. The blue-white bar lights above make his bone structure very pronounced, and give his white buzzcut hair an unearthly look. Like an angel, but not necessarily a good one. His sultry look comes my way again.

“Ah, _argentum vulpes_ , the silver fox. Don’t fall for it. He does it to everyone,” Gannon says next to me.  
“What do you mean?” I ask.  
“He makes everyone fall in love with him, with his whole venus-as-a boy thing.”

At the bar, Vulpes is still gazing at us, an amused smile playing on his lips now. He catches my eye and mouths some words.

I get up, and the room’s attention switches to me. I walk over to Vulpes, walking normally but it feels like slow-motion because of too many eyes on me.  
“What did you say?” I ask when I reach him.  
“I can lip-read, you know.”  
“Ah.” 

He’s smiling warmly at me but I can’t smile back. I feel awful. I can’t get the mental image of what Dr Henry described out of my head, and I can’t admit to him that I know about it either. 

So I just take him in my arms and give him a huge hug, squeezing his angular frame tightly, feeling his arms wrap snugly around my back in turn.  
He kisses my hair behind my ear. “I hoped you’d wear that dress,” he whispers. “I wore this tie to match.”  
I’m momentarily confused, then I remember he’s been in my apartment, and probably went through my wardrobe. Right now colours and dresses and ties seem like the least important things in the world. All I want to do is hug him to death.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, leaning back to see my eyes.  
I can’t speak, so I just nod. He strokes my hair, and tenderly kisses my forehead. Everyone around us watches this, fascinated. People in the crowd are actually standing on tiptoes to see us over each others’ heads. We are now the freakiest sight in this room full of freaky people.

“What is it?”  
I take a deep breath, to give myself time to think what to say. I can’t think of anything, but I’m saved by Gannon, who comes up to us, and sticks out his hand for Vulpes to shake. “Hello.”  
Vulpes takes it and shakes. “Hello, Arcade Gannon. It’s good to see you again.”  
“Is it? I mean yes. Good to see you too. Sort of. Strange circumstances, but it always is.”  
Vulpes makes no reply.  
Gannon continues, “Would you like to join us?” waving his hand towards our table. Boone’s still zoned out, staring at nothing.

Vulpes hesitates, but I pull him over to our booth. I sit between him and Boone, to make a little buffer zone.  
Boone doesn’t move, but his eyes slide left to stare at Vulpes.  
“You know Craig Boone, of course,” Gannon introduces, as though there was nothing awkward here.  
“By reputation,” Vulpes answers. Boone remains silent, and goes back to staring into his whisky glass.  
“Did you blow up the courthouse?” I blurt out. I don’t know why. Anything to change the subject.  
“No,” Vulpes replies.  
Phew. “That’s a relief.”  
“But I know who did.”  
“Oh.”  
“And I built the detonator.”  
“Stop talking,” I say hurriedly, shooting a nervous look at Boone. But I don’t need to worry. Boone is finding his whisky much more interesting.  
Gannon leans forward, looking interested. “Was Aaron Kimball’s death an accident?” he asks.  
“No.”  
Gannon looks at me with a wondrous expression. “This is like having a magic 8-ball!”


	36. The offers and the ears

The walls of the Shh! bar start flickering. Black and white. Shapes move on them, then come into focus. Projections from ancient holodiscs, two men tapdancing on one wall, competing to outdance each other, a man and a woman in a car on another. The woman is driving drunk and reckless. Her companion is amused, indulging her dangerous manoeuvres but surreptitiously hovering his hand close to the wheel.

Vulpes sits relaxed, his left hand holding his drink on the table, his right arm loose at his side, the back of his hand lightly touching mine. The skin contact is probably less than a square inch but I feel that touched piece of skin more than any other part of my body. As though electricity is flowing from his skin into mine. When his hand moves fractionally it sends a shockwave though my nervous system. 

Gannon is still leaning forward, trying to unpick the enigma that is Vulpes. “Did you have a hand in Kimball’s death?” he interrogates him.  
“No.”  
“Did you know it was going to happen?”  
“Yes.”  
“Do you know who shot Lee Oliver?”  
“Yes.”  
“Who?”  
Vulpes smiles at Gannon but doesn’t answer.  
“Was it the same person who killed Kimball?”  
“The same guiding hand, perhaps.”  
“Cato?”  
“Hardly.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Cato has seven broken ribs and internal bleeding.”  
“Oh. Ouch. But who? Somebody else Legion-affiliated?”  
That smile again.

Vulpes’ hand moves against mine. His index finger lightly strokes me. My heart skips a beat.

“So you’re saying that you know what’s happening, but it’s not you doing it.”  
“Precisely.”  
“Do you have a vested interest in it?”  
“None, beyond enjoying the spectacle.”  
Gannon tilts his head, and opens his mouth to continue the interrogation when Vulpes intercedes. “I will answer only one more question.”

Gannon freezes, his mind obviously racing as to how to encompass everything he wants to know in a single question. 

Meanwhile I want to ask if he knows who killed Major Gilles, but if he says ‘yes’ I would have wasted my question, so I need to phrase it ‘who killed Major Gi-

“Why are you here?” says Boone flatly.

“Noooo!” cries Gannon. “Boone, what the hell?”  
“You asked ten questions. I counted. You been taking up all the oxygen. I only asked him one. And that’s what I wanna know,” Boone says, turning back to Vulpes. “Why are you here?”  
Vulpes replies, “I came to get Cato out of prison, nothing more.”  
“Damn it, what is going on, then?” Arcade says, exasperated. “Here we are, the city is going crazy, people are getting assassinated, Lori is going to have a lynch mob after her if the Bugle keeps up their campaign against her, and for what?”

Vulpes stands up, and walks over to lean on the bar again. He moves just one finger to get the barman’s attention, as though bidding at an auction for something he cares nothing about. He gets immediate service, and no one even dares to look annoyed about it. I watch, impressed. Must be useful, to have that level of commanding presence.

Boone gets up and wanders off towards the toilets.

“Lori, can I talk to you about something?” Gannon asks in a slightly weird voice.  
“Shoot.”  
“Have you noticed the ears?”  
“The what?” I must have misheard.  
“The ears. Boone and Vulpes have the exact same ears.”  
“Uh, ok? Is that unusual? Aren’t ears all pretty much of a muchness?”  
“No, they’re not. Ears are unique, and theirs are even more distinct, because they are a very rare shape.”  
“Really? They look just like regular ears to me.”

Vulpes has a fresh drink, and is heading back our way.  
“Take a look. The _cymba_ is larger than the _cavum_ ,” Gannon whispers.  
“Meaning?” I ask, but Vulpes slides in next to me and Gannon doesn’t answer.

I look, but I can’t see anything out of the ordinary. 

“So, how did you get here tonight without running into a patrol?” asks Gannon conversationally, to break the awkward silence.  
“I did run into a patrol.”  
“Oh. And they’re all bleeding to death in the street now, I suppose.”  
Vulpes doesn’t answer, just gives his little smile.  
Gannon looks alarmed. “They’re not, are they?”  
“I didn’t have to kill them. Or rather, you didn’t.”  
“Eh?”  
Vulpes takes Gannon’s glasses out of his inside pocket and puts them on. “Doctor Arcade Gannon, on the way to check on a patient.”

Gannon looks outraged. So much so that it’s funny. “What? How did you get those?”  
“I have your i.d. too. And Cato is enjoying some of your fine pain medication.”  
“That is good stuff,” I agree.  
“Lori did you break into my office and give him my things?!”  
“Wasn’t me,” I say, holding my hands up.  
“Give me my things back. Please,” Gannon says from between his teeth.  
“No.”  
Boone is back, and slides in next to Gannon. He goes back to his whisky-contemplation.  
“But I will swap you this pair for the ones you are wearing,” Vulpes continues. “A good deal, since that pair is damaged.”  
“A good deal. To trade me my own stolen things back,” huffs Gannon, but he takes the damaged glasses off and passes them to Vulpes, who tucks them in his pocket and swaps over the good pair.  
“I suppose you’re keeping my i.d. too.”  
“Correct. I promise to only do good with it.” Vulpes’ eyes twinkle.  
“You jest, but I would actually appreciate it if you tried not to do evil things under my name.”

I look at Boone’s ears. They are almost exactly the same as Vulpes’. I compare them to Gannon’s ears. Very different. What does this mean? They are from the same tribe? Or it’s just a co-incidence? A very peculiar co-incidence. 

Vulpes feels my stare and turns to look at me, enquiring.  
“Who’s this guiding hand you spoke of? Is it Colonel Curtis?” I ask.  
“No.” He leans in and whispers close to my ear. “I want you to leave the city with me tonight.”  
“What?”  
“It’s not safe to stay.”  
“For you or for me?”  
“Either. I want you to come with me.”  
“What about Cato? You said he had seven broken ribs.”  
“He is somewhere safe. You and I will leave without him. Before dawn.”

It has never crossed my mind to leave the city before. My short walks to the nearby hills are the furthest I have ever been. I try to imagine life for me outside the city, but no images come.

“No.” I shake my head.  
From across the table, Gannon says, “No what? What’d he say?”  
“He asked me to leave the city. Says it’s not safe for me here.”  
Gannon looks at Boone, and Boone senses it and raises his eyes up from his whisky. “You don’t have to go with him, Lori. You can come with us,” he says.  
“What? You’re leaving too?”  
“Yes,” says Gannon. “Your beau is right about one thing. It’s not safe here anymore, for any of us. Boone and me are leaving, and we were going to ask you to come with us.”  
“When are you going?”  
“In the next day or two. As soon as I get my research into a portable order.”  
“You wanna come with us?” Boone asks.  
“No. But thanks.”  
“Come with me, Lori,” Vulpes presses.  
“No. I won’t. The city might be turning to shit but I won’t run away from it. I’m going to stay here, and I’m going to face it head on, and I’m going to deal with things. In the proper way.”

I suddenly feel really upset. Everyone’s leaving, and I have to deal with the incoming shitstorm alone.

Then I think, well fuck it. I’ve always been alone, apart from my brief and disastrous attempt to be a family-woman. So alone it is. And I’ll start right now.

“Excuse me,” I say in a neutral voice, standing up. Vulpes stands to let me out of the booth. They make no move to stop me, probably thinking I am heading to the bar or to the toilets.

I edge through the crowd, and walk out of Shh! 

The air outside is beautifully cool on my flushed skin, giving me goosebumps. I look up at the dazzling skyful of stars glittering above me. My sequinned dress glitters back at them, as though one of them. 

_Astronomically insignificant._

My painful emotions fade, until I feel like a speck of dust floating on the breeze. 

I set off for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little reference to the Tamam Shud case there, for keen detectives ;)


	37. A time to run

Vulpes watched her glittering form move through the crowd. She was walking away from him.

But something had upset her before he arrived. The doctor and the sniper would tell him what.

His eyes followed her, noticing how everyone turned to watch her go as she passed them. Would she turn, to look back at him? Would she check to see if he was watching her?

She vanished through the door without glancing back. Vulpes couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or impressed. A little of both, perhaps. Frustrated again, certainly.

“Did Lori just walk out?” asked the doctor, standing up to peer over the crowd’s heads. 

Vulpes didn’t bother to answer. He was thinking, about whether to follow her or not. And if he followed, whether to stay in the shadows or venture further conversation. And if he ventured, what would he say. 

“She walked out,” the doctor said to no one in particular, spreading his hands in dismay.  
“Should go after her,” the sniper said, unfolding himself from the booth. “Not safe out there.”  
“Right,” the doctor said.  
“No,” said Vulpes firmly. “I will go. Right after you tell me what happened before I arrived.”  
The doctor and the sniper both looked interestingly uncomfortable at that.

Vulpes’ eyes drilled into the doctor’s. He had found, over the years, that an intimidating silence was often more effective at squeezing the truth out of people than verballing them. He chose the doctor as the softer touch of the two.  
“Er…” said the doctor.  
The silent stare continued.  
The doctor began to shrivel under the burning gaze. “I don’t know!” he finally exclaimed. “You’ll have to ask her.” He waved in the direction of the door.  
The silent stare continued.  
“I don’t know! She told Boone not me! I didn’t hear it! Or anything!”  
Vulpes switched his attention to the sniper, who stared back at him expressionlessly. 

Vulpes turned it up a notch. 

The sniper remained completely poker-faced and dead-eyed, without even breaking a sweat.

Vulpes intensified the silent death-stare.

He let it run a full minute, which in socially-awkward-moment terms was like a year, but it was to no effect. The sniper might as well have been carved out of granite.

Running short on time, Vulpes changed tactics. “Did you tell her you murdered your wife?” he goaded. He knew that Carla was the worst of the sniper’s many spectres. It would break his composure if anything could. In his peripheral vision he saw the doctor tense, but he maintained focus on the sniper.  
The sniper took a long slow breath, and let it out. “She was already dead. And I see what you’re trying to do.”  
“I am simply asking why a woman in your company was distressed. I find it strange that you both are so reluctant to explain yourselves.”  
“You’ll have to ask her,” the doctor said again. “I don’t know, and she swore Boone to secrecy, and believe me, he’s not going to break. There are things I’ve been trying to get him to tell me for years.”

Vulpes almost laughed. The doctor was comparing his doubtless pathetic skills at extracting information to his own.

Still. The thumbscrews would have to wait. He needed to follow her now if he was going to. He put his hat on and walked out without another word, the crowd instinctively clearing his path.

☣☣☣

I decide to take the wider roads home, even if it isn’t the shortest path. Two sides of a triangle, but that’s ok. Walking in the cool night air feels good after the claustrophobic club.

I’m on the second side when I see the shapes of two people come around a corner ahead of me and stride towards me, long coats swinging, a red glow emanating from their night vision goggles. 

Rangers in full combat gear. A tall one and a shorter one.

A stab of fear pierces my chest and I falter for a second but quickly resume my pace. Don’t show any fear to dogs, that’s the rule.

There’s something about the way they walk. A supremely confident swagger, like they’re riding high on a kill. Like they own this town. 

I keep walking, because they’ve seen me and it’s too late to change my mind. Don’t show fear, I tell myself, but my heart is in my mouth and adrenaline is rushing through my veins.

They slow as they near me, and part so I will have to walk between them. Neither of them says anything, but that just makes it worse. As I go to step between them they abruptly converge again and crowd me so I have to stop and then take an awkward step backwards. The taller one suddenly moves behind me which makes me spin around, trying to keep them both in sight. They keep crowding me and making me move in diagonals, then one grabs my buttock. 

☣☣☣

Vulpes took the shortest route to her building, predicting she would take the wider, marginally better-lit streets for safety, and thereby take longer to get home.

He arrived at her building and looked up to the top floor to see her lights off. She wasn’t home yet. He crouched down in the shadow of the doorway to wait.

Not a minute later he heard her yell.  
“Fuck _off!_ ”  
The voice bellowed in full fury, and carried well in the night air. Vulpes was on his feet and running, across the street, down to the corner and around. 

Two blocks up the road he saw the glitter of her dress. She was being baited and harried by two dark shapes. Moving closer he recognised the sweep of the long coats and red glow of the goggles. NCR Rangers. Not good. Rangers were close combat professionals, well armoured and always very well armed. Vulpes carried only his old switchblade. 

Still, this wouldn’t be the first time he had brought a knife to a gunfight and gotten away with it. 

He tried to stay in the shadows as much as possible as he approached. But fifty yards away, the taller Ranger saw him. To Vulpes’ surprise, the Ranger gripped his companion by the arm and moved away in the opposite direction, leaving Lori standing in the street watching them retreat. She turned and saw Vulpes’ silhouette, then turned back to watch the Rangers’ backs disappear around a corner. Vulpes walked up and stood beside her.

So strange. He could easily understand why the denizens of the Shh! bar would be afraid of him, but why would two fully armoured Rangers? It made no sense. Unless… ah. It made perfect sense. They weren’t afraid at all. But in that case, why were they setting upon Lori? 

Most likely because the shorter one was calling the shots.

Vulpes looked sideways at Lori. She was still watching the corner. Tears were silently streaming down her cheeks.

He took her in his arms, and gave her back the hug she had given him earlier that night. A long, snug, soul-restoring hug. They seemed to fit perfectly in each other’s arms. The swell of her breasts against his chest, and the scent of her soft hair against his face was intoxicating. He had to concentrate on not getting hard.

After some time, she let him go, and they walked back towards her apartment in silence. 

Vulpes thought hard. He had to find a way to persuade her to leave the city. Handcuff her to him and drag her out if she wouldn’t listen to reason. Whatever it took. Her urge to stay and fight was admirable, but the wrong choice in the circumstances. Courage in adversity was noble, he practised it himself on a near-daily basis, but there was a time to fight, and a time to run. It was crucial to be able to distinguish the two.


	38. The consummate gentleman

I stand in the shower, letting the water run pour down my face so I can’t open my eyes.

It’s 1:30 a.m. and there is a man in my apartment. 

He’s so much more than just ‘a man’ though. He’s a hardened criminal. He’s a torture victim. He’s a wanted man; a builder of bomb detonators; and a client.

Scariest of all, he’s a man who professes to love me.

He can’t be here. But he is. He might even be in the bathroom with me at this very moment, leaning against the sink, watching me with his faded eyes. I don’t know. I keep my eyes shut.

I must not do this. But I am doing it. I let him in, knowing what he wanted. Because if I’m honest, and I wouldn’t be if anyone asked, I want the same.

He’s in here with me. I’m sure of it. Something cold touches my shoulder and I jump, opening my eyes through the water, but it’s only the wall. I had been slowly losing my orientation with my eyes shut.

I take a deep breath and turn the water off. Drying myself, I twist my hair up and wrap the towel around me.

I find him in my bedroom, sitting on an easy chair, reading the paper. Still dressed, except for the hat which is on the floor.

He looks up when I come in, folds the paper and drops it aside, without taking his eyes off mine. Doesn’t say anything. 

In fact he hasn’t said a word since the Shh! bar, when he asked me to come with him, and I, well. I may have slightly overreacted.

Someone says he adores me and asks me to come with him for my own safety, and my immediate reaction is to give him the metaphorical middle-finger. So me.

Now’s my chance to make up for that, but I’m frozen in place. It’s so long since I was in the dating/mating game that I’m not sure what would be appropriate to do next. 

Romantic option, walk up and kiss him?  
Or maybe the jokey option, drop my towel and flick him with it?  
Easiest option, get into bed and wait for him to join me?

I’m somewhere between options one and two when Vulpes gets up, comes over to where I’m standing and slips the towel off me, letting it fall to the floor.

I take another deep breath and steady my nerves. You can do it, it’s just like walking into court with a hard-to-argue case and an aggressive judge, I tell myself.

No, it’s nothing like that.

A normal guy would take this opportunity to seize my breasts, but Vulpes is not a normal guy. Not by a long shot. This man is all about the eye-contact, the smoulder, the subversion of expectations. It’s keeping me interested, I’ll give him that.

Instead, he takes my wrists and places my hands on his chest, like he did in my office earlier. I feel his heart beating, which makes mine beat faster in turn. He moves my hands up towards his shoulders. I take the hint and keep them moving, over his angular shoulders, slipping his jacket off. It falls to the floor too. With his damaged hand he loosens the green tie and pulls it off by one end. Then he unbuttons his shirt, starting at the top. Watching his dextrous fingers deftly manipulating the buttons I start to feel a little breathless. 

I slip the shirt off him the same way the jacket went. His hard, damaged chest is a testament to a hard, damaged life, but it’s beautiful to me all the same. I can’t help but notice that his nipples are aroused. I bend and lick one with the very tip of my tongue, earning a quick intake of breath from him. A little break in his composure. Rare, and enticing.

I unbuckle his belt, unbutton the trousers, and push them down together with his boxers. Careful not to end up on my knees, because I don’t mind finding myself on my knees at some point during sex, but I prefer not to start off in that position.

An erection of pleasing, if slightly eye-opening, dimensions is revealed. Oh my. 

He kicks his shoes off, and the trousers the rest of the way off after them. At this point, a normal guy would grab my hand and put it on his cock. 

That doesn’t happen. He kisses my mouth instead. Warm, devotional kisses, starting on the lips and then slowly going deeper.

Still kissing, he walks me backwards till I fall back onto my bed. I wait for him to crawl on top of me, but he kneels on the floor, pulls me back a little towards him so my hips are on the edge of the bed, and starts to kiss my thighs.

I lie in front of him, naked and warm, elbow crooked over my eyes, legs slightly apart. As exposed and vulnerable as a person can be. And I feel strangely great about it.

He kisses my knees, nudging them further apart. He kisses his way slowly up my thighs. His jaw is scratchy and his lips are soft. He pushes my legs even further apart, and kisses his way to my centre, which is tingling with anticipation. 

Vulpes’ fingers stroke me, very lightly. First just nearby, the skin on my belly and thighs, closest to the triangle of soft hair growing there. Then he strokes closer in. Then he gently opens me and licks inside, a long stroke up, almost to the clitoris, then down. Then right inside. I stifle a gasp. He withdraws, and licks up again, this time letting his tongue reach my clitoris, touch it for a moment, then down and inside me again.

I reach down and stroke his head, feeling his short velvety hair. My hand touches his left ear, the skin of it astonishingly soft, and I remember for a moment Gannon’s odd claim about the ears. I decide to think about that tomorrow, not now. Then I remember what else got said at the Shh! bar and freeze up. 

My other arm was keeping my eyes covered, but I remove it and stare up at the ceiling for a second, trying to empty my head again.

Vulpes notices there’s something wrong, and raises his head to look at me queryingly. I look back at him, trying to sink into his eyes and forget anything else. It works. We gaze at each other until I can think of nothing beyond what I want him to do to me.

I lie back and cover my eyes again, so sensitive now I can even feel his breath on my clit.

Vulpes licks, strokes and caresses. Under his expert ministrations I am becoming intensely aroused. His tongue swirls lightly around my clitoris now, making it swell. 

As I begin to reach orgasm, he slides his fingers into me to feel me clenching around them. He touches my clit lightly again. I involuntarily clench again. He licks near my clit, on each side but not right on it. The man knows exactly what he’s doing. Keeping me in a state of bliss, almost touching but not quite, moving closer and further away, the two fingers sliding slowly and smoothly in and out of me.

He keeps it up until I can’t bear to wait any longer. I whisper, “I want you inside me.” He ignores the request and keeps dangling me over the precipice of orgasm.

He’s taking over all my senses. Soon I hear myself pleading, “Vulpes… please… I want you inside me.”

Vulpes relents, climbing over me and pulling me further up into the bed. He kisses my belly, then takes one of my breasts into his mouth and sucks very gently, making me sigh with pleasure. He kisses my other breast and teases its nipple with his tongue. Then he reaches up to kiss my mouth again, sucking on my tongue, and I taste myself in his mouth.

My hands run over his dense deltoid, bicep and brachioradialis muscles as he moves his hips into alignment with mine, then his straining erection penetrates me, setting flame to my senses. I am flushed and panting, desperate to be fucked. He starts slowly, his vivid eyes locked on mine. The speed and force increases, and soon he is ramming into me with no mercy. It’s his time now. My fingers grip his shoulders as I take his brutal attack.

He fucks me long and hard, till he suddenly pulls out and spills over my belly. I love the sensation of the hot droplets landing across my aroused skin.

After I catch my breath, I roll out of bed, wipe my belly dry on a discarded t-shirt, and turn the light off. Then I go back into the bed and lie close to him, but not quite touching. I don’t know if he’s the snuggling-after-sex type. I’m not much for it, but if he wants to, I’ll make an exception.

We both wait for each other to say something, but there’s nothing but silence and the sound of our breathing.

He’s lying on his back with his arms behind his head, fully relaxed. I roll on my side, facing him. 

The moon is up and shining in my window. 

I can see Vulpes smiling in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been re-written, more in keeping with the rest of the work.  
> I've been trying so hard not to indulge my tendencies towards crack and smut, then I put tons of both into one chapter xD  
> Still, I do love the idea of the Legion's spies practicing how to please a woman (and Karl being hopeless at it), so I may write a short crack-fic about it soon ^^


	39. A fight, an arrest, and an epiphany

THURSDAY

4:42 a.m., Thursday May 3rd, 2283

Someone is knocking quietly at the door. I open my eyes and try to focus, but the ceiling is dark and blurry above me. Awake is the wrong word for what I am. Dimly conscious at best.

There’s a warm weight across my waist. A man’s arm. Vulpes. I turn my head slightly and try to focus my eyes. He’s asleep, chest down and facing away, the pillow pushed aside. I suppose he’s not used to pillows. Nor beds.

I lift the arm off as gently as I can, and roll out of bed. The soft knock sounds again. I pull on clean knickers and a top and cross the living room to the door, mentally grumbling. More people have knocked on it in the past week than in the previous year. Way too many.

Beyond my balcony, only a faint electric blue close to the horizon heralds dawn.

It’s Craig Boone. Still in the same fatigues he was wearing last night. And the day before that.  
“Hey, Lori.”  
“Craig? Have you even been home?” I rub my eyes.  
“Jus’ walkin’ around. Couldn’t sleep.”  
“Could you maybe come back later? I’m in bed.”  
“Need to talk to you, Lori. Came to tell you not to –” Boone breaks off, staring at something behind me. Even in my sleep-deprived state, I can guess what it is. I glance over my shoulder at the inevitable. Vulpes is standing in my lighted bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame. He’s wearing nothing, and he looks as tired as I feel. Visible behind him is the bed, with its tell-tale rumpled sheets.

So there’s not going to be any point in denying anything. This scene says ‘Vulpes is my lover’ as plainly as if it were tattooed across my forehead.

Boone is staring at Vulpes like a mistreated mutt stares at a burglar, right before he goes psycho. I think I even see his eye twitch. I figure I have about two seconds to prevent a murder.

“Stop right there,” I say softly, placing a steadying hand flat on Boone’s chest. “I understand. You came to warn me not to let him in, or not to trust him, or not to whatever with him. I appreciate that. But I’m a grown woman, Craig, and I don’t need protecting. This is my private life. So please go home, and if you want to talk to me later, I’d be happy to see you.”

Boone stopped staring at Vulpes to gaze at me during this speech, and he looks like he’s calming down, thankfully. 

But then he glances back over my shoulder, and whatever he sees, maybe a little smile of triumph on Vulpes’ face, maybe a little dismissive wave, I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s a red rag to a bull. Boone shoves me out of the way and launches himself at Vulpes.

Who, unfortunately, engages. Too much to hope he might try not to escalate the situation. 

The two fighters wrestle in an ugly and frightening way, wordless and physical, all guttural sounds and furious fists. Boone is younger, faster, heavier, and angrier. Vulpes evens out the odds by fighting dirty and mean, attacking Boone in vulnerable places and leaving the younger man howling in pain and fury.

“This is not acceptable!” I yell, ineffectually. They both completely ignore me. Boone tries to smash Vulpes’ head with one of my chairs. Vulpes dodges and kicks Boone hard in the side of the thigh, provoking a roar of pain.

This is ridiculous. It’s not even daylight, I just want to be asleep in peace and quiet, and these two high-testosterone, low-IQ idiots are slamming each other’s heads into my apartment walls.

I’ve seen some women get a thrill out of men fighting over them. I think they’re fools. 

Although to be accurate they aren’t exactly fighting over me, so as Gannon would probably tell me, I shouldn’t get big-headed about it. The enmity between these men runs much deeper; political, personal, and years long.

I’ve got to find a way to stop them, they’re trashing my living room as well as each other. Running to my kitchen I fill a large pot with cold water, trying to ignore the smashing and grunting sounds coming from my living room. If they damage my gramophone I will kill them both. Off the balcony. No regrets.

Coming back out with the water I see that Boone has Vulpes pinned to the floor, and Vulpes is doing his best to try to put out one of Boone’s eyes. Delightful. 

Splash! goes the cold water all over both their heads. Old fashioned I admit, probably the kind of thing Marlene Boone would do. But they’re well past being talked down, and I’m no fighter.

They pause just long enough for me to say, still channelling Marlene Boone, “I will not have fighting in my house. Leave, both of you, or stop this right now.”

They can’t just stop, of course, because neither trusts the other enough to be able to be the first to disengage. But they stay unmoving, no longer actively trying to injure each other, so that’s a start.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d help me clean up this mess,” I say to no one in particular, and start picking things up and putting them back where they belong. The chair Boone threw is broken. I lift it up and look at it sadly. Boone lets go of Vulpes, gets up and comes over to see if he can slot it back together. He can’t, it’s properly broken.

“I’ll fix this, Lori,” he promises, actually shamefaced. Behind him, Vulpes rises and goes into the bathroom, coming back with a towel and drying his face and hair, then using it to mop up some of the water on the floor.

Boone’s t-shirt is soaked. He pulls it off and goes to the bathroom to wring it out in the sink.

Just then there is a tremendous CRASH! My apartment door busts right off its hinges and flies across the floor to hit me in the calf. Riot police flood the room, shouting deafening and incomprehensible orders like the guys who tackled me to the ground in the street did yesterday.

Guns bristle, and once they have brought Boone out of the bathroom at the point of a combat shotgun, his hands on his head, and lined the three of us up, MP Captain Renata Herrera steps forward, fixing me with an accusatory eye.

“Well, well, well,” she says, and one side of her mouth quirks up in an almost smile. “I came to arrest _you_. Guess I’ve got myself a couple of nice bonuses here.”  
“Arrest me? On what grounds?”  
Herrera raises her eyebrows, like ‘do I need to spell it out?”  
“I mean before you found an escaped man in my apartment.” That is a crime, I can’t deny it.  
“On orders of the Protector of the City, Captain-General Oliver.”  
“What? Those aren’t real ranks. And General Oliver is dead, you told me yourself!”  
“Oh, that General Oliver is dead. We have a new General Oliver. Colonel Curtis has declared a state of emergency and appointed her Protector of the City.”  
“A… new…” Realisation dawns, and I’m too shocked to finish my sentence. 

In that second, everything becomes crystal clear. Gigi Oliver, with her lover Colonel Curtis, has mounted a coup. It’s all been building up to this. The courthouse destroyed, and a state of emergency declared. Civilian law suspended and martial law imposed. The old authorities, Kimball and Lee Oliver, dead. The city left leaderless. Someone had to step up. Enter Mrs Oliver, mother of the city, and brave, heroic Colonel Curtis, her right hand man.

Leaving only two mysteries unsolved – why Major Gilles had to die; and what any of this has to do with me.

“And look at you,” Herrera continues. “Sorry to interrupt your sexy threesome.”  
The riot police guffaw behind their masks. It does look bad. Vulpes is naked, Boone is shirtless, both men have a sweaty, just-finished-frenetic-physical-exercise look about them, and I have only a slim-fitting black tank top and a pair of black lacy undies on. Damn it. I’d grabbed the nearest pair of pants in my underwear drawer. Very unfortunate they happened to be sexy ones, since I have plenty of unsexy pairs in there too.

“Looks like you had a real party here last night,” Herrera says, looking around. I see her eyes take in my rumpled bed through the open bedroom doorway. “You fucking these guys, Treichler? You got a bad-guy fetish or something?”  
“She got a DP fetish,” one of her men says, to more laughs.  
Herrera smiles too. “Well, maybe that’s just as well, cos you’re getting locked up, and there’s going to be plenty of DP in lock-up for ya.”  
“She didn’t do nothing’, this is all a mistake,” Boone tries. No response.  
Captain Herrera drops the smile and turns business-like. “Lieutenant Lori Treichler, you are under arrest for assisting an offender, aiding an escape, collaboration, and treason.”  
“No!”  
“Shut up. Also gross indecency and gross moral turpitude, for your little threesome with a war criminal. Craig Boone, you are under arrest for assisting an offender and collaboration. You are also re-arrested for the murder of Major Brenda Gilles.”  
“This is -”  
“I said shut up. Vulpes Inculta, you are under arrest for escaping from custody, causing an explosion, and the murder of General Oliver, which will be added to your existing charges. Let’s go.” She turns on her heel and heads out.  
“Herrera! Don’t you see what’s going on?” I call after her.  
“Don’t wanna hear it,” she calls back dismissively, without even turning her head, and vanishes out of view. 

Vulpes, Boone and I are handcuffed and dragged out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out into the street, still in our inadequately-dressed state.

I try to catch Vulpes’ eye, but when I do, he looks back at me with no expression.

The first rays of sun are shooting over the horizon now, warming the city where they touch, but it’s still cold in the shadows of buildings as I stumble along in bare feet, each arm tightly gripped by the masked MPs flanking me.

“Gigi Oliver is having an affair with Colonel Curtis,” I tell the one on my right. “It’s a conspiracy! They’ve taken over the city! They’re trying to shut me up!”  
He ignores me completely.  
The MP on my left says, “Yeah, everything’s a conspiracy.” Her tone is mocking. I hadn’t even realised that she was a woman. The heavy riot gear and mask fully concealed her gender, only her voice gave her away.

Suddenly I have an epiphany. The Rangers, the tall and less-tall one. I know who they are now.

And it dawns on me that I am in shit way over my head, and I have been for much longer than I realised. Ever since I wore that cursed red dress.


	40. If I'd known you were coming I'd have unpinned a grenade

The city awoke, and citizens began moving around, going to work, taking children to school.

When they passed the city square, the people going to work stopped and stared. The people taking children to school hurried past, shielding their children’s eyes and not answering their questions. In the middle of the square was a platform on which three people were chained to metal poles at neck, wrist and ankle. In disgrace and on display.

On the left was an ex-soldier whose face was vaguely familiar to newspaper-readers. He wore boots and trousers only. **Murderer** was painted high across his bare chest, in angry red paint.

On the right was a man whose face was permanently etched into the minds of every citizen. The war criminal, caught. He was stark naked, and his body told a long history of strife and war. **Terrorist** was painted across his chest in dripping red.

Between them was a woman, also known to the adult population. She was gagged and had only an immodest pair of lace underpants on. **Traitor** was painted across her chest above her breasts.

Vulpes hadn’t spoken, but Lori had frantically talked to anyone who would listen, hence the addition of the gag. 

On the ground around the platform was a ring of armed guards, stopping anyone from getting too close; a mercy, as some people were spitting and throwing things. Nothing would stop a bullet from passing through any of them, though. Vulpes looked carefully around, but no one was aiming a gun at them. Yet.

A large crowd formed as the morning progressed, some heckling and jeering, some just staring, with expressions ranging from amused to worried. Some people tried to question the guards, but no one got a verbal response. Anyone who got too close got a shotgun barrel in the face and quickly stepped back.

Vulpes didn’t show it, but he was afraid. He’d expected they would come for Lori sooner or later, but the speed of their pounce surprised him. In retrospect, he reflected, it shouldn’t have. A dawn raid was a natural escalation. He had been distracted by his romantic endeavours and not seen the next step in the coup as clearly as he should have. 

Now he was trapped, with no plan B. He had been in a lot of tight situations over the years, but none much tighter than this.

This time there was no friend to help him. Picus, the true traitor here. Traitor to his own kind, to his adopted clan, and to his old tutor. 

Vulpes pondered Picus’ actions and motivations. He hadn’t been in touch with Picus for years, so the younger man couldn’t have been expecting Cato and Vulpes to show up in town when they did. And Picus’ plan with his lover Gigi Oliver was already in motion by then. 

But helping Vulpes get Cato out of jail, and then harbouring them while everyone else panicked – that served Picus and Gigi’s cause so well. It created precisely the kind of mass hysteria that allowed them to declare martial law without questions being asked. It provided perfect cover for the murders of Gigi’s husband, the Republic’s president, and a few other influential people whose deaths hadn’t hit the news. 

The bombing of the courthouse, which Picus had suggested one evening as a bit of mischief, and with which Vulpes was happy to oblige, was part of the wider plot.

The framing of Lori, not so easily explained. Vulpes couldn’t quite see what purpose that served, unless it was simply as it appeared, an additional scapegoat, someone for the public to focus their opprobrium on, thereby looking away from Mrs Oliver’s sudden ascension.

So many unknowns. How much did Gigi know? Had Picus known Vulpes would be caught in the sweep on Lori this morning? Probably. He saw him stalking her last night. Would Picus let Vulpes escape again, for old times’ sake? Could Cato still be safe? Was Lori destined for a show-trial, or summary execution?

No, Vulpes thought, he knew the answer to that last question. She was an experienced criminal defence lawyer, and she knew - or at least suspected - too much. There was no way they would risk submitting her to a trial, where she could talk her way out of the shit and them into it. She would be executed without trial, for sure, and soon, while the public’s ire was still hot.

Vulpes sensed Lori looking at him, and turned to look reassuringly back at her. He had nothing to reassure with, other than his presence at her side. But he could look at her, and she at him. They gazed at each other for a long time.

 _I love you_ , he softly mouthed at her, hardly moving his lips so only she would see.

It just made her eyes fill with tears. So much for reassurance.

Lori was in deep distress. Soldiers had forcibly cut off her shirt, to paint on her chest, and she was exposed and humiliated. The soldiers had handled her roughly; and at some point her anger had metamorphosed into fear. He understood what must be going through her mind. If they could do this, they could do anything.

He saw Boone watching her, but saying nothing either. There was nothing to say. They were all dead.

A tall, masked NCR Ranger swept through the crowd, people deferentially stepping back for him. He passed the cordon of armed guards without challenge, and stepped up onto the platform.

Vulpes watched, wondering if it was Picus. 

The Ranger stood in front of Lori, and said to her in a deep voice distorted by his mask, “Say it ain’t so.”  
Lori blinked a lot, her eyes still full of tears.  
The Ranger took his mask off. It wasn’t Picus, it was a gingery-haired, tough-jawed man with intelligent eyes. He reached up and loosened the gag from Lori’s mouth, pulling it down. “Say it ain’t so,” he said again. Lori tried to answer but couldn’t, she had been crying too hard and could only gasp.  
“It ain’t so,” Vulpes said, to spare her.  
The Ranger fixed him with a hard eye, then turned back to Lori. “They’re saying he was found in your bed. That true?”  
Lori squeezed her eyes shut, and after a pause the Ranger took that as an answer. He put his mask back on, then carefully re-fitted Lori’s gag. Then he stepped down off the platform and walked away without another word.

Vulpes watched Lori’s eyes, when she opened them, but she didn’t watch the Ranger walk away. He didn’t mean that much to her.

The sun was getting high in the sky, and starting to beat down on them very hot. They’d had nothing to eat or drink since the night before. Vulpes wondered how long they would be chained here. Till they died of dehydration and vultures pecked their eyes out, perhaps. Not how he had hoped to die, but it didn’t matter all that much. He had never expected to live this long anyway. The last two years had just been extra time. Last night had been his final bonus.

His mind replayed the events in Lori’s bedroom last night, and he wondered if he’d given her as much pleasure as she’d given him. He hoped so. A pity that there wouldn’t be a chance to do it again. He had a lot more he could have given.

A little later, Picus did visit. He stepped up onto the platform, very dapper in his new colonel’s uniform, chest glittering with medals, and addressed the wildly cheering crowd.

Vulpes listened to his speech, but as he expected it meant nothing, just crowd-pleasing sloganeering and bravado. Captain-General Oliver would rescue the city, and with the public’s support he would stand behind her every inch of the way, the NCR was stronger than ever and this wouldn’t slow them down, the traitors had been discovered and he would personally see to it that justice was served, et cetera.

After the speech, to the sounds of ecstatic applause, Picus walked over and stood tall right in front of Vulpes, as though dominating him. Vulpes cocked his head and looked up at him with a cheeky toothless grin.  
“Wipe that grin off your face,” Picus said, irritated by it as Vulpes intended he would be.  
“Impressive performance,” Vulpes said very softly. “You have been well schooled.”  
“Shut it,” Picus said between his teeth. “This is temporary.” His voice was so quiet Vulpes could only just make out the words.  
“And Cato?”  
“Safe.”  
“Only me to the wolves then. And Miss Treichler.”  
“It’s temporary,” Picus said again. “Bide your time.” He moved across to Lori, stood very close on the far side of her and whispered something in her ear, then watched for her reaction. Vulpes strained to listen but the crowd was too noisy and he couldn’t hear. He recognised the look in Picus’ eyes, though. Lust.

☣☣☣

The sun is terrible. The skin on my chest has never been exposed to it before, and it’s not happy. I’m turning an ominous shade of pink. 

I cried hard for a while, first in fury and embarrassment, then in shock and fear, but after O’Riordan left I ran out of tears and calmed down. I try to think my way out of this bizarre situation, but nothing seems possible. I’ve seen captives paraded through the city on their way to prison before, and I thought that was inhumane, but I’ve never seen people chained to posts and left there as an ongoing spectacle.

This city has changed, out of all recognition.

Or maybe it hasn’t. Maybe the scales have just fallen from my eyes.

 _You’re living in a bubble,_ Vulpes once told me. Nowhere else in the Wasteland is a civilised as NCR City. Not even NCR City.

Colonel Curtis comes to gloat at us, and has some kind of communication with Vulpes, although I can’t make out what they’re saying. Vulpes gives him a very peculiar wolfish grin. Curtis looks disturbed by it.

Then Curtis comes over to me and as usual stands too close. This time he’s so close his crotch is actually pressed against my bare hip. He puts his mouth close to my ear and breathes, “You looked so sexy last night.” Against my hip I feel his penis twitch.

Ugh. But it means I was right. Those pseudo-Rangers were Curtis and some cohort of his, almost certainly Gigi.

“You look good bound and gagged, too,” Curtis murmurs.  
“Gigi know you’re flirting with another woman?” I ask, but through my gag it comes out incomprehensible.  
Curtis snorts at my attempt to speak, snaps the elastic on my panties, and moves off, waving at the crowd and receiving loud adulation in return.  
Leaving me fuming, with no way of expressing it other than to look daggers at him. Which he probably likes.

My arms ache, I’m getting burned, I need to pee, and I’m also horribly thirsty. I look at Boone and Vulpes on either side of me. Boone stares stoically ahead, and Vulpes meets my eye, then looks away. Neither of them looks physically uncomfortable. Guess I’m just soft, from all my bubble-living.

Uh oh. I see trouble coming from the far side of the square. The unmistakeable figure of Marlene Boone is hustling towards us.

“Boone,” I call, sounding like _boong_ , and nod Marlene’s way when he looks enquiringly at me. He sees her, and watches her approach with trepidation. But something odd is happening. She’s not looking at Boone. She’s looking at Vulpes.

Marlene struggles through the crowd to the front, and tries to pass the armed guards. This results in the business end of a combat shotgun being pressed against her sternum.

She’s staring at Vulpes, like she thinks she knows him from somewhere and she’s trying to remember where. Vulpes notices her, and stares back at her. Marlene’s face suddenly crumples.  
“Gabriel!” she screams at him.  
Vulpes makes no response. His face is frozen, staring at her.  
“Gabriel!” she howls again, and her face is so sad, her mouth is an upside-down U of tragedy and her eyes are brimming with tears.

I look at Boone. His jaw is dropped, and he’s leaning forward to stare past me at Vulpes. 

Well, I think to myself, looking between the three of them. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any more awkward.

☣☣☣

The strange old woman kept shouting Vulpes’ birth name, long since abandoned. Vulpes stared at her. How did she know it? She must have known him when he was a baby. Which means she must be from the Utah. Which means she could be… the thought was too appalling to contemplate. It wasn’t possible. His mother must be dead by now. Otherwise she’d be… about this woman’s age.

Vulpes strained to remember what his mother had looked like. He remembered long, flat hair and long, drab dresses that touched the floor. No other images.

“My Gabriel!” she wailed again. Vulpes glanced at Lori, who met his eye, then turned away toward the sniper. 

The sniper was craning his neck to stare at Vulpes, with the strangest expression on his face. Real shock. As though this situation horrified him as much as it did Vulpes.

Vulpes made a decision. “Old lady!” he called. “You are mad! Take yourself to the madhouse!”

It didn’t have the desired effect. Hearing his voice, the woman dropped to her knees and clutched her heart.

☣☣☣

I’m so fascinated watching the drama unfold between Marlene Boone and her sons that I hardly notice demographic of the crowd starting to change. By the time I notice, dozens of teenage girls have quietly slipped through to the front. Bleached hair, red clothes. Oh shit.

I see Sophie, their leader, wearing some sort of cloak. There’s something under it. She has a wide smile and a wild look in her eye, the kind of look people get when they’re about to unleash chaos. 

My goddamned gag prevents me from calling to her, but I shake my head frantically, desperate to stop her from whatever she’s about to do. These guards have combat shotguns and I don’t think they’re afraid to use them. This could become a massacre.

Sophie catches my eye, and slowly nods, countering my head-shaking. Then she throws off the cloak and hefts a massive bolt cutter in the air like a weapon.  
“VULPESITAS RISE!” she screams, and the girls all emit ear-splitting shrieks and shove forward in a co-ordinated wave, toppling the surprised guards and trampling over them to rush the platform and swarm all over Vulpes. 

“GET DOWN!” the guards around the back who didn’t get trampled are bellowing, aiming their guns threateningly. One of the Vulpesitas leaps through the air and lands on a guard in a kind of reverse piggy-back with her thighs around the man’s throat. He falls backwards, to find himself flat on his back with a girl’s crotch squashing his face. She wiggles her hips, rubbing it in. He’s paralysed, shotgun dropped and forgotten. Two other Vulpesitas are inspired by this piece of performance art and leap at two remaining guards. One manages to pull the trigger on his shotgun before he goes down, causing an tinnitus-inducing BOOM, but the barrel is pointing upwards and no one gets sprayed.

Meanwhile, Sophie and another girl, surrounded by a protective wall of partying Vulpesitas, are working two pairs of bolt cutters, snapping Vulpes’ restraints. 

They get the last one open and drag him free, swarming close around him and ferrying him off the platform, away across the square and out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Vulpesitas theme tune! _Deceptacon_ by Le Tigre  
> 


	41. Deity

Vulpes found himself backed up against a wall in a large basement room decorated all around with pictures of himself. It was a shrine to himself. Red cloth was draped around artfully, candles lit his portraits, and spray-painted bulls adorned the spaces between his portraits. 

He held a drink of unknown substance in one hand. Surrounding him were his saviours, all girls, all avidly studying his face, hands, torso, and more. He studied them back. The “Vulpesitas”. Some sort of teenage fanclub. Not dangerous, presumably. Although he had to give them credit for the sheer gutsiness of their raid. If only they had freed Lori too. 

He tried a sip of the drink. It tasted sweet and alcoholic.

The girl who had led the raid stepped forward. She had a slightly mad look about her, but she was charismatic too. “I’m Sophie,” she said. Vulpes bowed his head politely. Best to be polite until he had the full measure of these strange girls.

Sophie indicated a tall, scruffy, mean-eyed girl standing next to her, the one who had wielded the second pair of boltcutters. “This is Fliss.”  
Fliss nodded a greeting. She was as tall as Vulpes. They stared at each other. Vulpes instinctively understood that in this gang, Sophie was the mastermind, and Fliss was the enforcer. Both of them would have to be negotiated with.

“And you are Vulpes Inculta, greatest warrior of the _Legion of the Bulls_ ,” Sophie continued. “You are our god. We are your harem. We live to serve you, our master. Please, command us as you will. We will deny you nothing.”

Vulpes was nonplussed at this. Before he had thought of an appropriate response, another girl piped up, “Do you prefer blondes or brunettes? Or auburn?”

Before he could answer that, another girl gushed, “You look different than your picture. In a good way though. Like, so much more _real_.” Other girls murmured their agreement. They were inching closer and closer.

Vulpes swallowed. His throat was dry. He sipped the sweet drink again.  
“Vulpesitas,” he said, pronouncing it in accordance with how he said his name. “I am deeply grateful for your assistance.” 

The girls gasped at finally hearing his voice. Some of them swooned, overwrought with terrible excitement. 

“In answer to your question,” Vulpes continued calmly, “I prefer black, red or brown hair on a woman. And only men should wear red clothing.”

Jaws dropped all around him. Several of the girls rushed off, no doubt to obtain emergency hair-dye supplies. Vulpes had no preference, in truth, but he thought it was a good idea for them to stop being so highly visible. MPs would start looking for them soon.

Suggesting that they stop wearing red had an unintended side-effect. Sophie reached down and gripped the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head and casting it aside dramatically. The others quickly followed her lead. Except Fliss, who was looking at him with eyes of stainless steel.

“Fliss,” Vulpes said.  
“Master,” she replied softly.  
“I require your assistance with a particular matter.”  
“Anything, master.”  
“In the medical block of the military complex there is a doctor named Arcade Gannon. I wish you to bring him here.”  
“It will be done.” Fliss bowed her head.  
“Six three, hair same colour as mine, glasses with black plastic rims, usually wears a labcoat,” Vulpes specified.

Fliss bowed again and went out.

“I also require someone to acquire a suit of clothes for me,” Vulpes said, looking around.  
“I can bring some of my dad’s clothes!” one girl suggested.  
“I can get my brother’s uniform,” another offered shyly. “He was about as big as you.”  
Vulpes nodded. “I will take the uniform. Thank you.” Narrowly avoiding the dad-clothes.

“Come,” said Sophie, taking Vulpes’ hands. “Let us make you comfortable.” She pulled him to a thickly-furred nightstalker pelt mat, all spread around with piles of cushions. 

Vulpes didn’t argue. He let himself be settled on the soft bedding, and he let the girls kneel around him and begin to fondle him. Shy kisses landed across his skin like soft rain. They stroked his scars and burns. "You have suffered so much, master," they murmured. "Please, let us ease your pain."

He let it happen. They seemed relatively harmless, and he owed them a favour. He had nothing to do but think, until Gannon got there. He could think while being adored.


	42. The other red material

I watch helplessly as the chaos unfolds around me. Marlene Boone is screaming, at Craig, at the raging guards, at anyone who’ll listen. _My Gabriel_.

Tomasz, his parents and his older sister have all arrived. Tommy’s mother is holding a bundle of African wax print cloth and trying to push past the guards, pointing at me and arguing vigorously with them as they bar her way. Tommy’s father is trying to reason with them, and his sister is vociferously denouncing the guards’ lack of humanity, but they don’t get through. The guards have made an embarrassing slip, they’re not going to make the same mistake again.

“My mother brought you some clothes!” Tommy calls to me. I nod gratefully. Probably nice, modest garments that would cover all my burnt skin. Pity there’s no chance of getting them past the guards.  
“We’ll get you down, Lori!” Tommy calls. I nod again and manage to fake a smile. It’s not one of my better ones though. I’m pretty sure the only way I’m getting off this platform is as a lifeless body.

One of the soldiers comes up onto the platform to check on our chains, which are in place. Unfortunately, the Vulpesitas didn’t do anything for Boone or I. The soldier, a fresh-faced young woman, pulls my gag down.

“Who’s the old lady?” she asks me.  
I have to lick my cracked lips a few times before I can answer. “His mother,” I reply, nodding at Boone.  
“She need to go to the infirmary?” the soldier asks Boone.  
“Leave her alone,” growls Boone. The soldier shrugs and steps down.

It’s a huge relief to have that gag off. I check on Boone, manacled to the post next to mine. “You ok, Craig?”  
“Naw,” Boone says. “My ma’s hallucinating. She thinks Inculta is her son.”  
“Gannon thinks you’re related too,” I reply. “Something about you having the same ears. Could it be possible?”  
“No,” Boone shakes his head.  
“Couldn’t he be the boy you told me about, with a different father, that got taken?”  
“It’s not possible,” Boone repeats slowly.  
“His name was Gabriel?”  
There’s a long pause, then Boone says, “Yeah. Ma never talked about him. My dad told me.”  
“How much older than you would Gabriel be, if he was alive?”  
“About 15 years, I guess. Maybe a little more.”  
_Right age_ , I think. “What did Gabriel’s dad look like?”  
Boone shrugs. “Never saw him. He got killed in a barfight years before I was born.”  
“What was his name?”  
“Horst someone. Dengler. Horst Dengler. He was a violent bastard. My dad said he used to beat my ma up, all the time.” He gazes at Marlene. “Inculta can’t be Gabriel Dengler. He doesn’t look anything like ma.”  
“Hmm. But neither do you, Craig. Maybe you both look like your fathers.”

I see Boone’s eyes narrow at that. If Marlene’s identification of him is true, Vulpes’ father used to beat Boone’s mother up. I have the impression Boone is mentally adding that to Vulpes’ crimesheet.

The Borowicz family gives up and leaves, but Tommy stays. I call to him to go home, but he shakes his head. 

Just then I notice another familiar face in the crowd. Tibbet, the editor of the Bugle. Probably here to catch some saucy pictures of me for the next edition. All of a sudden, I feel like murder.  
“YOU!” I bellow at the little man. “You did this!” Red tinges my vision and adrenaline courses through my veins. If I wasn’t in chains I feel like I would actually strangle him.  
“Lori, it wasn’t me!” Tibbet calls back, making a gesture of helplessness. He looks genuine, but I don’t know. I stare daggers at him.  
“Look out for the Special Edition!” he calls to me, before edging away through the crowd and hurrying off.

The guards are having real trouble controlling the crowd, but I see reinforcements coming. A whole platoon, in battle gear, marching across the square towards us. They wade through the crowd, shoving people out of the way and pushing H&K P90c submachinegun barrels into chests. This just makes the crowd angry. A scuffle breaks out, which quickly evolves into an all-out brawl. 

Then I hear the short _BRRT_ sound of one of the H &Ks emitting a 3-round burst. Screams. Suddenly everyone backs away fast, then runs. The crowd disperses like ghosts, till the only people still standing in front of us are the soldiers and Marlene Boone, and the only movement is the widening puddle of blood around the body on the ground.

Tomasz.

“Stop the bleeding!” I scream at them. “Stop the bleeding!” No one is listening to me.  
“Ma! Stop him bleeding!” Boone yells at Marlene, trying to jerk with his head to indicate the spot where Tommy lay. She hears him, and hesitates for a second, looking around as if unaware of the existence of someone who needed to stop bleeding. Then she sees Tommy, and rushes over to him, using her billowing skirt to press onto his torso and staunch the flow.

“Oh no oh no oh no,” I murmur compulsively, not aware if I’m saying it aloud or not. “Oh no oh no oh no.” He mustn’t die, mustn’t die. Not Tomasz. No no no. He’s just a kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Named after Dieter Dengler (torture survivor par excellence)


	43. A friend in need

When Dr Gannon arrived he found Vulpes holding court on a bed of cushions, naked and surrounded by near-naked concubines. He couldn’t suppress a laugh, though quickly morphed it into a cough.

“Well, I don’t know what I was expecting,” he said. “I suppose an old-style Roman orgy should have been nearer the top of the list.”  
“When in Rome,” said Vulpes. “And I am not touching them. They are merely touching me.”  
“If you say so. Sorry it took us a while to get here. Miss Fliss here, scary lady by the way, asked me specifically to convey to you that our tardiness is entirely my fault, as I insisted on taking a detour on the way here.”

Fliss nodded slowly at Gannon, who gave her a toothy grin in return.  
“What detour would that have been?”  
“Just dropping something off,” Gannon said lightly. “So. How can I help?”

Girls started trying to disrobe the doctor. “Stop that, please,” Gannon said, brushing at their hands, but they persisted.  
“He is not to be touched,” Vulpes ordered. The molestation immediately halted. “And neither am I,” he said sharply.   
The girls shrank away, mortified to have displeased the god.

Vulpes shooed them away till he could speak to Gannon semi-privately.  
“You seem remarkably unperturbed. Are you unaware of where Craig Boone and Lori Treichler are?”  
“No..? I’m suspended from duty so I’ve been sleeping the atomic cocktails off all this morning, and then reading in my bunk. Why? Where are they?”  
“They are strung up in the public square, painted as traitor and collaborator.”  
“WHAT?”  
“Hush. That’s why I summoned you. We –”  
“We’ve got to go there and stop it!”  
“I don’t think the rush-and-boltcutters trick will work a second time.”  
“What?” Gannon said again.

Vulpes explained what had happened that morning. Gannon’s anxious frown deepened as he listened, and the frown turned into a grimace when he heard about the enforced nudity.   
“Poor Lori, that’s horrible,” Gannon murmured. Nudity in public was extremely un-NCR City. Even _Cat’s Paw_ magazine was considered outrageous, and copies were traded in secret and hidden under mattresses. The NCR was not a permissive society. That was probably why NCR soldiers went bat-shit crazy when they arrived on the New Vegas strip.

“Which is why I am waiting for clothes; and then we can go,” Vulpes concluded. “But before that we need a plan. I suggest we reconnoitre the square and ascertain whether additional guards have been posted, or if our friends have been moved to another location. We also need to plan where we will take them when we free them.”  
“I like your confidence,” said Gannon. He thought for a minute. “There are tunnels under some parts of the city. We may be able to use them.”  
“They don’t go near the square,” Vulpes said.  
“How do you… oh of course, you used them to escape the prison, didn’t you,” Gannon guessed. “But how did you know about them?”

Vulpes didn’t answer that. Picus may have gone renegade, but Vulpes still felt some sense of kinship with him. There was still a chance, albeit a receding one, that his prodigy might redeem himself.

“Never mind. You know everything. I get it,” Gannon said. “Oh - the tunnels go to the courthouse too. You used them to plant them bomb didn’t you?”  
“I didn’t plant it, but yes, I believe that was the access point. How did you know about them? I was given to understand they are not widely known of, and all but disused, apart from a direct path between the prison and the courthouse.”  
“I don’t think they are widely known of,” Gannon answered, shaking his head. “I’d forgotten about them myself until now. The only reason I once heard about them is because there was a medical researcher I used to work with who knew a doctor who was having an affair with Gigi Oliver, and she told me they’d use tunnels to go meet each other -because there’s one manhole in the basement of the infirmary, and another one in the admin building where Gigi works.”

Just then the girl who’d gone to get the uniform came back in through the door, and came to kneel at Vulpes’ feet, proffering a bundle of army fatigues and a pair of spit-shined boots at him. Vulpes took them from her without a word.  
“Master,” she said, bowing her head low.  
Gannon giggled again.  
The girl looked strangely pale. She continued, “I passed by the square on my way home. The big crowd was there, even bigger than before. But just now, on my way back, the stage was empty and there was no one there, except for a-” she broke off.  
Vulpes waited.   
“A what?” Gannon said, unwilling to wait.  
“… a big puddle of fresh blood.”

Vulpes remained silent.  
“How big?” pressed Gannon.   
The frightened girl stretched her arms out as wide as they would go.  
“Not good,” breathed Gannon.  
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Vulpes. “Where was the puddle? On the platform?”  
“No, in front of it, on the ground.”  
“Just a passer-by, no one important,” Vulpes said to Gannon. He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

Gannon started pointing out something about everyone being equally important, but Vulpes’ mind was already moving on. Where would they have taken her?


	44. A gilded cage

My last sight of Tomasz is of him on a stretcher, being carried away from the square as Boone and I are unchained by soldiers and taken down. Tommy’s skin, normally very dark, has turned greyish, and I can see his eyes are open but unfocused. 

Marlene Boone stands in the square, anxiously wringing her stained hands, the whole front of her skirt soaked in blood. She watches the stretcher leave the scene, before turning back to us. She looks very frightened.  
“S’ok, ma,” Boone says. “You go on home. We’ll be ok.”

Some soldiers in different uniforms surround us and escort us away from the square. I hear Marlene yelling again behind us, demanding to know where they are taking her son. Someone must be restraining her, because the sound of her voice quickly recedes as we are frogmarched away. Next to me Boone is staring at the ground angrily, shaking his head and frowning. 

At least Marlene had the moxie to stick around after the shooting started, although that might have been partly because her attention was fixed on Boone, rather than what was happening around her. It was astonishing how fast the rest of the crown melted away as soon as they realised live ammunition was being used and someone was bleeding. My gutless compatriots, going to water as soon as something scary happens. 

I desperately hope Tommy isn’t dead. 

☣☣☣

The Oliver residence is palatial, even the spare rooms. Boone and I are taken into a large guest bedroom and left there, handcuffed, sunburned and dehydrated. Imprisoned amongst tasteful furnishings and silky upholstery.

The door was audibly locked from the outside when the guards left.

My hands are cuffed in front; Boone’s are behind his back. I don’t know if this is because Boone is considered more dangerous than me, or if it’s because two different soldiers did it and there’s no reason beyond inconsistent interpretation of orders. I suspect the former, though. Boone is dangerous. He bottles things up, and then explodes like a firework. 

As soon as we’re left alone, Boone goes and presses his ear to the door, listening for a few seconds. Then he starts looking around the room, maybe for weapons or an escape route. He catches my eye and says quietly, “Guard outside.”  
“Ok.”  
“Did you notice them?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Not standard soldiers. Those were some of General Oliver’s private guard.”  
“Oh. I guess they’re Gigi’s men now.”  
“Yeah. Doing whatever she tells ’em.” Something about the way Boone said ‘ _whatever_ ’ sounds ominous.

There’s an ensuite bathroom, so I go in, have the most relieving pee of my life, and drink about half a gallon of water from the sink. In the mirror my skin is pink and angry. There’s too much white showing around my eyes. I look like a startled lobster. I splash cold water on my face and chest, and try to relax my face back into its normal, not-flipping-out expression.

“TRAITOR” washes off, but unfortunately remains perfectly readable underneath anyway, the paint having functioned as sun-block. 

Boone comes in and mumbles incomprehensibly, until eventually asking if I wouldn’t mind helping him with his belt and pants so that he can pee too. I’m glad to help him. It makes me feel human again, after a surreal and dehumanising day. Besides, we’re getting pretty familiar with each other. I’ve seen him in his shorts in the infirmary with ligature marks around his neck. He’s seen me chained up in only lace undies all day.

“The paint washes off,” I tell him, leaning against the sink while he pees. He glances at where it says TRAITOR in un-burnt skin across my chest, and makes a wry half-smile.

I help him get the pants done back up again, and cup my hands under the tap for him to drink some water. 

“Check all the drawers, Lori,” he suggests. I go around both rooms checking them all, but they’re completely empty. No one uses this room. There’s no window either, except a very small rectangular one near the ceiling in the bathroom, too narrow for anyone to get through.

We’ve been on our feet all day, and I ache. I flop down on the bed thankfully. Boone slides down the opposite wall and sits on the floor.

“Why are we here, Boone?” I ask, not really expecting any answer.  
Boone shakes his head slowly. “I dunno, but it’s not good, Lori. I got a bad feeling. Things could get pretty ugly.”  
“In what way?”  
Boone is silent for a while. Then he says, “We’re in a bedroom, Lori.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I mean we’re not in jail. We’re in a bedroom. And the only people who are gonna know where we are, are Curtis, Gigi, and their private guards.”

I suddenly remember walking home alone last night from the Shh! bar, and getting intercepted, harassed and pawed by the two Rangers. Who were Curtis and, I’m almost certain, Gigi.

And then Curtis today, being gross, pressing himself against me and whispering about how he liked me tied up.

 _Ick._ Boone is right. This isn’t good. About the only good thing about it is that Boone is still with me. 

Which in turn makes me wonder where Vulpes is. Would he abandon me? I honestly don’t know. His note said he loved me, “forever”. Bullshit. Nothing lasts forever. An obvious lie… Strange, for a man who isn’t normally obvious.

I’m not sure I’d even blame him if he did abandon me, though. His smartest move at this point would be to get out of town, and never look back.

There's a low murmur of voices outside the door, and a key turns in the lock. Boone's mistrustful eyes slide towards the sound. It's clear he doesn't expect anything good to come through that door. 

I find myself holding my breath.


	45. The new prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten.

When the door opens, it’s Curtis and a couple of guards, but Gigi isn’t with him. 

Curtis issues orders to the guards, who zap Boone with something electrical without even trying to ask him nicely to do what they want.

Want they want turns out to be to go somewhere with them. They lug a limp and dangling Boone out of the room, Curtis follows them out, and I’m left alone.

A minute passes. Being alone in this place is disturbing, but wondering about what’s going to happen next is no better. In an effort to keep calm, I go back into the bathroom for more cold water. The sunburn seems to keep getting worse, even out of the sun. The skin on my shoulders and chest is a deep red now, and hurts. 

There’s no lock on the bathroom door. It opens inwards, too, so it wouldn’t be easy to try to hold it shut. I look around the room again, but there’s nothing I can use to protect myself, and even if there was, I’ll be outnumbered and hopelessly inexperienced. I’m not that physical a person. I’ve never thrown a punch in my life. 

So dismantling the cistern or breaking the mirror to try to make a weapon crosses my mind, but I dismiss it as probably not that great an idea.

My weapons are words. If I get a chance to use them. 

After splashing some more cold water on my most badly burned areas, I walk back into the bedroom and sit down on the bed to wait. The water dries in front of my eyes. I feel so tired, but I don’t want to be lying down when Curtis reappears. He might take that as an invitation. 

Curtis reappears after another minute, ominously carrying an unmarked jar of some kind of clear gel. He sets it down next to me on the nightstand. The very sight of it sends shivers down my spine.

“What is that?” I ask, not quite keeping panic out of my voice. Thinking about grabbing it and smashing Curtis in the face with it. Except I think it’s a plastic jar, so that would probably just make him angry, not actually injured.

Curtis seems to think my alarm is funny. He gives a broad grin and flashes his perfect white teeth. “Not what you think,” he answers wryly. He opens the jar and scoops out some of the gel, smearing it across my burnt skin. It feels cold, and almost immediately soothing. 

“What is it?” I ask again, as Curtis leans close to gently spread the gel all around my neck and shoulders. I can smell spicy aftershave. His hands feel strong and confident. It’s easy to see why women like him. Other women, that is. Not me, I won’t be changing my mind any time soon.

“Sol-X. It’s a new preparation, developed by an experimental medical lab I oversee,” he says as he smooths it onto me. “It neutralises the effects of solar radiation burns completely, and restores the skin to its normal condition.”

“Amazing stuff,” I agree. Where he has applied it, all the stinging redness is gone, ‘TRAITOR’ has vanished from across my chest, and the sensation of cool relief is immense. “Colonel?”  
“Mm?”  
“My assistant Tomasz Borowicz was shot this afternoon.”  
“Mm.”  
“Has your lab developed any treatments for gunshot wounds?”  
“Not specifically.” He smooths the gel down my arms.  
“Do you know if he’s alive?”  
“No.”  
“No you don’t know, or…” My heart clenches.  
“I don’t know. Would you like me to find out?”

I would, but I also have a feeling I might have to pay a horrible price for any favours I ask. Still. Tommy’s life is worth more than my self-respect.  
“Yes, I would. I would like you to call the infirmary, and if he’s alive, tell them to look after him any way they can. Please.”

Curtis cocks his head to one side and looks at me appraisingly. “Very well.”

He gets up and goes into the next room, leaving the door open. The next room is a small sitting room, presumably for the guests who are using the spare bedroom. I can see a guard standing just outside the bedroom door, another at the door leading to the hall, and Boone sitting on an easy chair still looking a bit discombobulated. Curtis picks up a telephone on the sideboard, and dials four numbers. He watches me while he waits, giving me a flirty smile. 

Someone seems to have answered because his attention snaps to the phone, and I get to hear one side of the conversation.  
“Do you have a gunshot patient by the name of Tomasz Borowicz? Colonel Ronald Curtis, and you are? Hm. Mm. Alive? Condition? I authorise Ultra-Stimpak use on him. That’s what I said. Do it immediately. One more thing, doctor; if he dies, I will hold you personally accountable. So I recommend you do everything in your power to ensure that he survives. Very good.” He hangs up. 

One thing I know for certain about Curtis, he’s a supremely talented actor. I have no idea if he was faking that conversation or not.

He comes back into the bedroom, closes the door behind him, and sits back down next to me, reaching for the jar again.

“What’s an Ultra-Stimpak?” I ask.  
“It’s another new treatment. Not particular to gunshot wounds, but it heals pretty much anything. The problem is, it’s prohibitively expensive and difficult to manufacture. So far it’s only authorised for use on army personnel ranked captain and above.”  
“Thank you,” I say, my voice heartfelt.  
“You are welcome.”

Curtis smoothes the salve into the skin of my exposed breasts. I tense up, catching my breath. Here comes the payment of the price.

“Don’t worry,” he assures me, fingers swooping around my breasts like a potter moulding clay, “I won’t touch you.”  
“He said, touching me.”  
Curtis just gives me another easy smile without answering. His hands don’t stop moving. I can see him getting an erection. Bad.  
“Colonel Curtis?” I ask.  
“Hm?”  
“How about I be the one who does that? I can put it on myself.”  
“No.”  
“You are committing a sexual assault.”  
“Pff. No I’m not.”  
“Legally, you are. You are touching me for purposes of sexual arousal, without my consent, and you’re aware that you don’t have my consent. That is the definition of sexual assault.”  
“Shall I prosecute myself, then?” he asks sardonically. “And appoint you to defend me?”  
“What do you mean, prosecute yourself?”  
“The courthouse is not going to be rebuilt, Lori. All the judges have been made redundant and paid off, and Kevin McGill now has a new job as 'legal advisor' to Gigi and I, who are going to make all decisions on matters of justice from now on.”  
“Very tidy.”  
“I thought so.”  
“A new world order.”  
He laughs. “I wish. Your world is small, Lori.” He’s the second person who’s told me that.

“Did Vulpes Inculta help you to blow up the courthouse?”

Now he does pause his hands. “What makes you think that?”  
“He told me he helped someone. And I’m guessing it was you.”  
“Why would he tell you that, I wonder,” Curtis muses, resuming the application of gel. His hands have moved down to my hip bones now. His fingers slide under the narrow sides of my panties.  
“Please don’t touch me there.”  
“Relax, Lori,” he says again. I can’t relax, I feel coiled like a spring. His hands move away from the panties, down to my thighs and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

What were we talking about? Oh yes, Vulpes. “Which would mean you and he know each other somehow. Does Gigi know him too?”  
Curtis keeps his eyes on what he’s doing, but answers in a measured voice. “You seem to be on confidante terms with Vulpes Inculta. Why don’t you ask him the things you wish to know about him.”  
“I’m not expecting to see him again,” I admit.  
Curtis looks interested in that. “Why not?”  
“Because you and Gigi are intending to kill me… aren’t you?”  
“She is. I’m not,” he replies. “Or I wouldn’t waste an extremely costly new treatment on you.” With a flourish, he scoops out more of the gel, and kneads it into my thighs.  
“So… you and she don’t agree?”  
“We agree on very few things. The only thing we completely agree on is that we want to use each other for our own ambitions.”  
“And you want to bed each other.”  
“That, too.”  
“But then again, you want to bed everyone.”  
Curtis looks up at me, and his hands slow in their movements, but don’t leave my thighs.  
“Not everyone. But you, yes.”  
“I thought you said you weren’t going to touch me.”  
Curtis stares at me, his jaw working as he thinks. Eventually he says, “I find myself caught between three allegiances.”  
Interesting. “Gigi, the City and..?”  
He snorts. “Fuck the City.”  
I’m taken aback at how derisive he sounds. “Who, then?”  
“Gigi Oliver. Vulpes Inculta, as you might have guessed. And myself. Of which, two are against me touching you. In my sense of the word.”  
I’m surprised. “Allegiance? To Vulpes? I know you seem to know him, but that’s a strong word.”  
“It’s the right word.” Curtis goes back to his work, down at my calves and feet now. 

He puts my foot in his lap, and massages it. It quickly becomes apparent he has something of a foot-fetish, to go with all his other sexual predilections. I can feel his erection pressing lightly against the sole of my foot. _I could kick him in the dick right now,_ I think. But I don’t. I’m genuinely grateful that he helped Tomasz, assuming he actually did that, and besides, the situation had become absurd more than frightening. Almost funny, even. Or perhaps I’m delirious.

“How do you know Vulpes?” I ask.  
“I told you to ask him that.”  
“Ok... So you know Gigi’s using you.”  
“Of course. And vice versa.”  
“Right. She needs you, to support her rise to power and give it legitimacy. You need her, to raise you above Colonel Moore and Colonel Hsu.”  
Curtis doesn’t bother answering, just gives a confirmatory flick of the eyebrows.

There’s something I don’t get. “But… if you have some kind of allegiance to Vulpes, and you’re also aware he doesn’t want me hurt - why are you torturing us? Why the public humiliation?”  
“It was a compromise I had to make.”  
“ _That_ was a compromise?”  
“Gigi actually wanted all three of you to be burned at the stake. This evening, in the square. She thought it’d be an epic climax to the process of your character assassination.”  
“What?!”  
“Mm. She said it would make a formidable spectacle, ‘this is what we do to traitors’, we being the City, with an undertone of ‘this is what we could do to anyone who doesn’t go with the flow’, we being she and I.”  
“Holy hell.”  
“It wasn’t easy to talk her out of it. We eventually agreed on the stake, without the burning.”  
“…thank you.”  
“So you’re to be executed at dawn tomorrow, by firing squad, instead.”  
“What?” My voice comes out like a whisper.

Curtis chuckles at my shock. “Relax, Lori. If Vulpes hasn’t found a way to rescue you by then, I would be quite surprised.”  
“What if he hasn’t? Are you going to let it happen? Is Boone going to die too?”  
“He will, I won’t need to, and yes.”

There’s a single knock on the door. A warning, rather than a request for entry. Curtis immediately moves my foot off his lap, and puts the jar of salve into a drawer, closing it quietly. He stands up, straightens his uniform, and moves to lean against the wall next to the door, arms folded, expression stern. He still has a semi.

Half a minute later the guard opens the door and Gigi Oliver swishes into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who contributed your thoughts and feelings about the story and its characters, particularly in the "Curtis - too evil?" debate.   
> It was a great assistance (for which I feel very unworthy).


	46. Pictures of me (and you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re-edited, with two significant changes.

The general’s widow stops a couple of feet from me, a folded copy of the _Bugle_ under her arm. She’s wearing a starched general’s uniform, with three stars on each side of her collar. On her head is a beret at a steep angle with the bear insignia at the front. Her hair is immaculately coiffed. She wears blood-red lipstick and the same shade in glossy nail polish.

I find myself wondering how she finds time to do her nails in amongst so much scheming.

Two guards come in behind her, escorting Boone, who’s back on his feet and looking only slightly the worse for wear. The guards shove Boone down into a kneeling position on the floor next to where I’m sitting on the bed, and leave, closing the door behind them.

I stop thinking about the nail polish and start wondering what the guards must be thinking. 

She stands there, somehow successfully exuding airs of propriety and superiority. By contrast Boone and I look like we’ve been sleeping rough for weeks. Years, in Boone’s case.

Her superlative phoniness makes me belligerent. “Only three stars, Mrs Oliver? Why not go for the full set?”  
“It’s Captain-General Oliver now.” She says this without any apparent sense of shame.  
“That’s not a real rank.”  
“Actually it is. You don’t know your military history very well, Lori. Hardly surprising, though, as you seem to have a very narrow range of interests.”  
“Meaning?”  
She ticks off on her fingers, “Defending criminals, harbouring escaped criminals, threesomes with criminals...” She laughs.  
“I didn’t have a threesome, but I’m sure you know that,” I reply, trying to retain my composure and what few shreds remain of my dignity.  
“It doesn’t matter what I know, it’s what everyone knows,” says Gigi, and she tosses the _Bugle_ at me. **_Special Edition_**. It lands right on my lap. I ignore it. I don’t want to play her game.

“Open it,” suggests Gigi. “It’s all about you.”  
“It’s been all about me for days now, I didn’t care too much in the first place and I’ve sure as hell stopped caring now,” I snap back.

Gigi flicks a smile on and off, and cocks her head at Curtis, who steps forward and straightens it out for me. I still ignore it, but he pushes my head down so I have to look.  


**CHILD KILLER!**  
_"Disgraced Lt. Lori Treichler, long suspected and yesterday proved beyond a doubt to be a ruthless traitor to the NCR, has another cold-blooded secret – two years ago she killed her husband and her infant daughter. In an act of unimaginable recklessness, she –”_

I read no further. It’s suddenly cold in this room.

“You can’t deny it, can you,” Gigi says. “It’s a matter of record.”

My belligerence is gone; leaving only a familiar emptiness. When I find my voice, it's commensurately hollow. “Hm. It’s impressive, how low you are willing to go.”  
“Oh, Lori don’t be a fool, it’s not how low, it’s how high. To the very top. I control the NCR’s empire now. And what do you have, for all your self-righteousness? Nothing. Except your damaged, deranged war criminal from a defeated army,” Gigi taunts. “Who has apparently been kidnapped by a gang of schoolgirls. Ha ha!”

There’s a photo accompanying the article. Me and my husband, cradling our new baby. It’s the one I had tucked away in a drawer next to my bed. Upside down, so I never had to actually look at it. They’ve searched my room and stolen it, and published it in the paper for all to see, under this vicious headline. 

I look at Boone, sitting on the floor below me.  
“Why are you looking at him?” Gigi enquires.  
“I guess because he’s the only person in this room I can stand to look at.”

“Touché. Perhaps he’d like to know what sort of person you really are, too.” Gigi picks up the paper and drops it in front of Boone, who ignores it. “Read it,” she orders. 

He just stares her down.

“Ugh. Of course, you have that in common don’t you.” Gigi turns back to me. “You both killed your whole families.”  
“FUCK OFF!” Boone roars savagely.  
“I did wonder why you two seemed to become such unlikely friends,” Gigi continues, unperturbed by Boone’s ferocity.

I glance at Curtis. He stands still, muscled arms folded, feet apart. Radiating machismo. Still gazing contemplatively at me. No reaction to Boone’s outburst.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t know the piece of Boone’s history she’s referring to, but it doesn’t seem like a good idea to ask now.

“You are a fly in the ointment, Lori. Or should I call you Patsy,” she grins, “because co-incidentally you were simply the perfect fall gal for our purposes. So. Two birds, one stone.”  
“I get the scapegoat bit, but fly in the ointment? How am I a pest to you?”  
“So many ways. Running around telling everyone that Boone couldn’t have killed Brenda Gilles because he had the wrong gun. Snooping around Gilles’ quarters, asking questions about me. Somehow getting yourself photographed at _my_ party wearing _my_ dress. Flirting with Ronnie. Having secret meetings with my husband.”  
“Wait a minute, stop.” My brain is spinning. “It bugged you that I tried to defend Boone? You wanted me to!”  
Gigi says condescendingly, “Don’t be obtuse, Lori.”  
“You didn’t want me to? You wanted Boone to go down for it? Why? Did Curtis kill her?”  
Gigi rolls her eyes as though I’m missing something very obvious.

Boone speaks for the first time since the conversation began. “She did it.”  
Gigi silently mimes clapping her hands.  
“What!?” I’m stunned.  
Boone says, “Gigi was in First Recon, way back, before my time. Was a natural. One of the best snipers we ever had. Till she caught the General’s eye.”  
Gigi elaborates, “Lee could see I was destined for greater things, and as he so often liked to tell me, he was right. I’m not much impressed by your investigative skills, Lori. For someone who specialises in evidence I would have thought you’d have found that piece of information out. Especially as you were spending so much time talking to Craig Boone.”

I can’t help but look accusingly at Boone, who says, “What? I did tell you.”  
“No, you didn’t.”  
“Pretty sure I did. I remember the conversation. Told you how she was the patroness of First Recon.”  
“You didn’t tell me she was _in_ First Recon!”  
“Yeah, well, that’s why she was our patroness,” Boone shrugs.  
“Oh jeez.” My wrists may be handcuffed but it doesn’t stop me putting my face in my hands. 

“Why else do you think I worked so hard to get Craig sent down for that one?’ Gigi says nonchalantly.  
“No…” I breathe.  
Gigi says in a sympathetic-sounding voice, “Poor old Craig dragged his half-dead carcass into the admin building, asked me to change his army pension to his parents, and we got talking, didn’t we Craig?”

Boone just stares balefully at her.  
“It wasn’t hard to guess why you came back,” Gigi says gently.  
Boone says nothing, but his eyes are full of hurt.

“But why did you want Gilles dead?” I ask Gigi.  
“Because she was a snoop, and a greedy one. She found out things she shouldn’t have, and instead of minding her own business, the fool of a woman was blackmailing Ronnie for money, threatening to tell the general about us.” 

“Money?” I raise an eyebrow at Curtis. The mystery semen-depositor, I bet. He just gazes neutrally back at me. His poker face is A-grade. 

And as for Gigi, credit where it’s due, she’s played everyone like a fiddle. Especially Boone and me. I’m grudgingly impressed. She’s the ultimate _femme fatale_.

“So you did the sniper job on Lee personally,” I say slowly.  
“Of course. You know what they say, if you want a thing done well.”  
“It was well done alright. The red dress was over the top though.”  
“I thought it was a good touch,” Gigi smiles. “Who did you arrange to take the photograph, by the way?”  


I’m confused. “The... do you mean the ‘who wore it better’ photograph?”  
“Yes. It was you, wasn’t it, who planned that? Trying to outdo me?”  
“No, not at all. I didn’t know you were going to wear that dress, and I have no idea who took that photo.”  
“Really.” Gigi says it flatly, obviously disbelieving.  
“Really,” I repeat. “Why would I try to embarrass you? That’s not my style at all.”  
Gigi stares at me, reeking of scepticism. Then she grabs up the _Bugle_ from the floor in front of Boone, and flips through the pages, till she finds what she’s looking for, folds the paper so it’s in front, and thrusts it in front of my nose. 

It’s a picture. I have to move my head back a bit to be able to focus my eyes on it. 

It takes my breath away.

Under the heading, **Social Diary, by Lady Penelope Polecat** , there’s a colour photo of me and Vulpes. Together. Embracing each other with an unmistakeable tenderness. The photo is focussed tightly on us, but I immediately reconise that it was taken in the Shh! Club. You can see the green glint of every sequin on my dress, and the burn scars on Vulpes’ hands. His unearthly blue eyes are locked on me. The depth of affection is right there, in our body language, crystal clear. 

Last night I slept in that warm embrace. Seeing it in front of me, so vivid but already gone, lost, wrenches my heart agonizingly.

The caption reads, **_NCR City’s most glamourous power couple?_**  
_Or might there be another couple of even greater influence, not yet out in public? Fine-tune your senses, my dears. The prevailing wind is whispering the two very big names._  
_And now I’m afraid I have some desperately sad news. Darlings, it’s been a joy, but I must leave you. We Polecats are a nomadic breed, and must travel where our destinies take us._  
_But wipe away your tears, my heart will always be with you, brave, loyal, and noble citizens of NCR City._  
_You know I don’t lie… much._  
_Penelope_

That line… I played that song just the other night.

I look at the photo again. It’s taken from a slight upward angle… right about from where Boone and Gannon had been sitting.

I must look stunned, because Gigi says, “Oh, so you didn’t know about this one?”  
“No...”  
“Who took this?” Gigi demands, shaking the paper at me.  
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Tibbett?”  
“He says he doesn’t know either. And I made things quite unpleasant for him, so I think he’s telling the truth. Both photos were dropped off anonymously at the Bugle offices, the same way the Polecat column is.”  
“When was this one dropped off?”  
“This afternoon, just before the paper went to the printers. Although curiously, the written section was dropped off sometime before work began this morning. Even though they clearly go together. So tell me. Cast your mind back to last night. Who was sitting near you in this bar?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. The place was full of strangers, I didn’t know anyone there. Why am I here, Gigi?”

Gigi tosses the paper on the floor, and stares at me with the sceptical eye again.

I press my distraction. “Why am I here, on your premises? Why not just put me in jail, before I go to the firing squad?”

Gigi says tautly, “You will go in front of the firing squad. You’re only here in the meantime to keep you quiet until they’re ready for you.” She glances at Curtis. “Well, we must go. A lot to do, running an empire. Come, Ronnie. Goodbye, darlings. Enjoy your last evening.” She moves to the door.

I feel like I should shake my fist and say ‘You won’t get away with this!’ But there’s no point. She’s already gotten away with it. 

I’d sure like to have a conversation with Arcade “Penelope” Gannon and his bow-tie camera.


	47. Who needs forever

After the door closes behind Mrs Oliver and Colonel Curtis, Boone and I are left alone again, and I experience a break down.

Or rather, shut down would be a more accurate description. I am perfectly still, frozen in time. Steel walls grow around me. I’m in my cocoon, an imaginary sphere which encloses me absolutely. No outside sound can penetrate its reflective surface. It’s not in this room, not even in this galaxy, nor in this or any era. It’s a vehicle which transports me out of contemporary existence, dematerialised and gone.

☣☣☣

“Lori,” Boone is nudging me with one knee. His hands are still bound by plastic handcuffs behind his back. “Lori! Snap out of it.”  
The cocoon vanishes and I’m back in the room. “…what?”  
“Shit, what’s wrong with you?”  
“Just resting my mind.”  
Boone looks freaked out. “Been trying to wake you up for fifteen minutes now. You were in some sorta catatonic state there.”  
“Oh. Sorry. I was listening to music.” Anita O’Day had been singing _Skylark_. As I remember it, Anita starts to come back to me, and Boone starts to fade. _“… have you seen a valley green with spring? Where my heart can go a-journeying…”_  
“LORI!”  
“…what?”  
“We’re in a fuckin’ situation here!”

I look up at him. No idea what to say. I agree we’re in a situation, but it’s one so unprecedented that I have nothing. No default to fall back on. No tried and true response. Not even a sketchy plan of approach. Nothing.  
“Lori!”  
“Stop it. I know. I don’t know.”  
“Pay attention and think! That’s what you’re s’posed to be good at, ain’t it? We don’t get out of this room first, you’re gonna be shot in the morning. So think! Think your way out of here.”

Boone’s rallying cry has an effect, albeit a modest one. “Ok.” I stand up. “I don’t think I can fight my way out of here, and your hands are tied, literally, so let’s try diplomacy.” I walk over to the door and knock on it, calling politely, “Guard?”

Boone looks disgusted. “I said ‘think’. Those guards are trained soldiers. There’s no fuckin’ way they’re even going to open that door, let alone fall for whatever line you try to feed ’em.”  
“Well, I don’t have anything else,” I reply. “Guard?”

“Stand back from the door,” a voice commands in reply.  
I move way back, to the far wall, then call, “We’re standing back.”  
The door opens. One of the guards stands in the entryway, immediately points a zapper gun at Boone and zaps him so the big man slumps to the ground again. “Whaddya want?” he asks me.  
“I wish you’d stop doing that, it can’t be good for him,” I say, going over to Boone’s collapsed form and checking that he’s breathing.  
The guard says, “You want something or not?” 

Boone’s ok, and I stand up to face the guard. “I’m Lieutenant Lori Treichler.”  
“I know that.”  
“What’s your name, please?’ I ask. He just looks at me, then his eyes drop. I’m still bare. I’d actually forgotten, having spent the whole day like this. It’s bizarre what you can get used to.

“Never mind. I was wondering if you would like to let us out,” I ask politely.  
The guard sniggers, answering only with an expression of incredulity.  
“Because, we are being held unlawfully,” I continue, in a reasonable tone. “This is false imprisonment. Mrs Oliver appears to be mounting a coup, which is unlawful in itself. She has no authority to give herself a grand title, nor to hold Sergeant Boone and I captive in her private quarters.”  
The guard continues to check me out, unimpressed by my entreaties. 

I step it up. “Did you know it was her who shot General Oliver?”  
That gets the guard’s eyes off my chest and locking onto mine. “Bullshit,” he growls.  
I shake my head soberly. “Not bullshit, no. She just admitted it to us. She was in First Recon, she’s a trained sniper. She and Curtis are knocking boots, and together they’ve conspired to take control of the Republic, killing anyone who’s in their way. That’s why she’s holding me here, not in jail. And that’s why the correct thing for you to do would be to set us free, and to stop working for her, as of this moment.”  
From his reaction it’s clear that the guard hadn’t appreciated the full scale of the alliance between Curtis and Gigi. He eyes me uncertainly, frowning and glancing occasionally at Boone. 

Off to the side Boone is stirring, getting up on his hands and knees, struggling to get himself to his feet.

I press my case. “They killed Lee Oliver and President Kimball. They even killed Major Gilles, because she found out about them, and was blackmailing them.”  
The guard shakes his head slowly. “No, that’s wrong. Major Gilles wouldn’t have been blackmailing them, no way.”  
“Mrs Oliver just told me she was.”  
“Other way around, more like. Major Gilles was having an affair with General Oliver,” he says firmly. “She loved him. So someone might have been blackmailing the General, or her, but she wouldn’t have been blackmailing anyone.”  
“What? No!”  
“Saw it myself. Right in this house.”

I pause for a moment, thinking. If what he’s saying is true, then the mystery semen was probably the General’s, not Curtis’. And Gigi lied to me. Maybe just to protect her dignity; pretty bad feeling having a husband who sleeps around, much worse when people know, worst of all if rivals find out. I noticed from her conversation that she seemed to consider me a rival. I should take that as a compliment, I suppose.

The guard is thinking too. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Treichler. I can’t let you go.” He sounds genuinely regretful.  
“You must. We’re going to be executed in the morning.”  
He shakes his head, resolved now. “Can’t do it. Even if what you’re saying is true, and I don’t know if I believe you, the General is dead, that’s a fact. Colonel Curtis is my superior officer, whether or not Mrs O is too. He ordered me to keep you in this room, and I’m following his orders. Otherwise it’s my neck with yours.”  
From the side, Boone snarls, “Why don’t you fuckin’ grow some balls.”  
The guard gestures at him with the zapper gun. “You want another dose?”

Turns out, he does. Boone charges, head down. ZAP! Hits the floor again. 

“I hope this isn’t giving him brain damage,” I mutter to myself, going to Boone’s prone form and rolling him into the recovery position. The guard walks out the door and locks it behind him.

Checking Boone’s vitals, I consider the new information. 

I think I’m seeing a slightly different picture emerging. 

The General, marrying a young, pretty, ambitious girl. Taking her out of her successful career to be a trophy wife instead. Then, after she aged some, humiliating her by having a series of semi-public affairs. She tried to get revenge, having an affair with a good-looking doctor. Polecat, the previous one, outed them, and the General, furious, had the doctor transferred to the front, where he was soon killed. Gigi, furious in turn, turns up the heat, having an affair with one of his favourite officers, right under his nose. He’s aware of something but doesn’t know who. He bribes me to find out and report to him who it is. No doubt if I had made my report, Curtis would have died that night, never having made colonel.

But I made no report, and the General died instead, because by then the plot against him was well in motion. 

What a ruthless crowd. It’s pretty hard to feel sorry for any of them, even the general and his wife, who must both have been hurting.

Meanwhile, Curtis, such a smooth operator. I have to admire the skill he has employed in manipulating these circumstances for his own advantage. Will it be long before Gigi herself dies in an unfortunate accident? Probably not till after Hsu and Moore go first. Or maybe he’ll keep the affair with Gigi ticking along; there couldn’t be anyone more perfect for him, after all.

I pat Boone’s shoulder absently, feeling weirdly cheered. I may go to the firing squad tomorrow, but at least I’ll go knowing why it all happened.

There are still a few things I still don’t understand though, mainly Vulpes-related. What is the origin of Curtis’ debt to Vulpes? Can Vulpes actually be Gabriel, Marlene’s long-lost son, or is she mad, as he told her, and Gannon’s same-ears observation just a coincidence? Will Vulpes dare a rescue attempt? Curtis said he expects he will, but to me, the high chance of failure and huge risk to himself make it a crazy choice. Vulpes struck me as being a man of many unusual character traits, but crazy isn’t one.

Most vexing of all, the note. I keep thinking about it in the back of my mind, and it doesn’t make sense. _“…If I should turn away, he must know not to pursue me. But if I kiss him, if I so much as touch my lips to his, he will love me for ever. That much is certain.”_ I did kiss him. Kissed him, and kissed him.

The problem is the ‘for ever’. It’s too much. I can believe he cares for me, even believe in love at first sight - or at least first meeting - because I felt it too. But ‘for ever’ is all wrong. No one knows the future. Nothing lasts for ever. Entropy is a basic principle of all matter on earth. Somehow, despite having no mass, love affairs are not exempt.

The claim that he would love me for ever strikes such a false tone that it throws all the rest of the note into doubt. It feels cynical, like an incentive, a glass of water displayed to a person dying of thirst. A promise of love eternal, real and touchable, out of the blue, made to someone alone and bereft.

My mind wanders back to last night. He was so intense. The way he kissed me, the way he touched me. I felt waves of emotion coming from him, and he made me feel something like rapture. 

But I have to consider the possibility, much more likely if I’m honest, that maybe he’s just the same as Curtis, an expert manipulator, and that he created an illusion of love in my mind, all the while playing me for some unknown advantage. More than just sex, surely. No need to put that much effort into simple sex.

Dr Gannon warned me of exactly that. Vulpes Inculta is impossible not to like, Gannon said, if he wants you to like him. But never to be trusted. 

Yet Gannon then took this photo of us in the Shh! bar, looking so lost in love it could be an ad for perfume; and went ahead and published it for all to see. So strange. I can’t bring myself to believe that Gannon is trying to do me harm – so why?

I reach for the paper where it lies on the floor, and gaze at the photo, feeling it again, my arms around Vulpes, thinking I was comforting him. In the picture, though, he is comforting me.


	48. vulpesitas.RISE!

Down the street a girl with shiny pink hair is dancing, pirouetting, shaking her hair and striking animal poses. 

She is Aloisia, a prime Vulpesita, and she’s an electric storm in human form.

Behind her, no one notices a man and his much younger wife walking, the wife holding her husband’s elbow possessively, the man in cap and uniform, cradling a swaddled baby in his arms. 

A patrol approaches. 

Aloisia shimmies up to them, steals one of the soldier’s caps and pulls it on tightly, then inexplicably runs directly towards a concrete wall as the soldier shouts and chases her.

The rest of the patrol stops to watch in disbelief, as Aloisia runs straight up the wall, and backflips off it.

She spins the cap back to its owner, laughing. He fumbles and drops it, and the rest of the soldiers cheer at Aloisia, who rewards them by dancing wildly in front of them, to the beat in her head.

Passing the patrol by, the wife watches Aloisia’s antics, brow creased, and the husband holds his baby close and bows his head to tenderly kiss its forehead. No one even glances at him.


	49. Come with me, come with me, we'll travel to infinity

Boone and I have long since run out of ideas, and stopped speaking. 

I am lying on the bed, half asleep, when I hear voices outside the door. Then I snap awake as I recognise one of the voices.

Dr Gannon is saying, “Yes, the female one. Yes. I don’t know. I suppose he didn’t want her suffering between now and the moment of her execution. Perhaps he is humane, like that. There’s no need, I’ve already been searched at the gate and again inside the front door. Oh very well. I suppose it’s the closest I’ll get to a handsome gentleman touching me today. Ha ha.”

“Stand back from the door!” The door unlocks, and Gannon is ushered in. He’s wearing a clean lab coat with the top of a syringe visible poking out of the breast pocket, and a stethoscope around his neck. No doctor’s bag, and I’m guessing by the conversation he had with the guard, no weapon either.

The guard stands in the doorway, watching.  
“Er, I need to examine her, so, if you don’t mind,” says Gannon, waving the guard away.  
“Examine away,” replies the guard.  
Gannon bristles. “Excuse me, but I am a doctor. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I will not examine a patient whilst she is being leered at. You will remove yourself, and I will call you if I need you.” 

His indignant-professional voice is perfect. I have to scratch my nose not to smile.

“Fine. Your risk,” the guard says, backing out and locking the door again. As soon as he shuts the door, I jump out of bed, grinning in celebration. Right now Arcade Gannon looks like the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

“How’d you get in here?” I whisper.  
“I told them Colonel Curtis sent me to treat a patient,” he whispers back.  
“Did he?” I ask.  
“Of course not. Vulpes sent me.”

He pats my head as I clasp him in a bearhug. “Sorry about the delay, it took us a while to find out where you were being held, then we had to figure out a plan.”  
I’m smiling from ear to ear. “Tell me that syringe is full of something useful.”  
“It’s saline solution.”  
“Oh. But the stethoscope is a weapon in disguise.”  
“It’s not. I got pretty thoroughly searched on the way in, which we anticipated. They checked everything, including the stethoscope.”  
“So… how-”  
“But he did give me a note for you, which they found and didn’t think anything of.” Gannon reaches into his trouser pocket. “Here.”

It’s just a narrow slip of paper, part of the side of a newspaper page. Down the torn edge are printed words, the last word from each line.  
**Couple?**  
_greater_  
_senses_  
_ispering_  
I recognise the words. It’s from Polecat’s latest column.

In the margin space, confidently written in blue ink, are just two simple marks.

∞.   
X

 _For ever._ I bite my lip. Scepticism forgotten, my heart feels like it’s going to burst. Deep breath.

“Lori?” Gannon enquires.  
“Well. Heh. I can see why it got past the guards,” I murmur.  
“He’s certainly succinct. He wouldn’t say what it meant, either. But I think I can make an educated guess,” Gannon whispers back. “He loves you infinitely deeply, something like that?”  
“Something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the Klaxons' tribute to Gravity's Rainbow


	50. Creeping in the dark

Boone nods a greeting at Gannon. “What’s the plan?” he asks in a low, blurry voice, like “S’pla’?”  
“Why didn’t you tell me you were Polecat, Gannon?” I whisper. Probably not the time but I’ve got to know.  
“The plan is fluid,” Gannon whispers to Boone, and just the way he says it makes me think they’ve been involved in a lot of weird situations with fluid escape plans before. Gannon turns back to me. “I made a strict rule of not telling anyone. It was too dangerous, after what happened to the last one.”  
“Why’d you take the gig, then?”  
Gannon’s eyes twinkle. “For fun, of course. It was great fun, dishing the dirt, having my little revenge on the glitterati. The Buglers didn’t know it was me either. I dropped in my copy anonymously, after hours.”  
“You gave them the photo of me and Vulpes at the Shh! bar?”  
Gannon looks awkward for a moment. “Ah, ye-es. I wasn’t trying to be sneaky, though, Lori. Believe me. That’s why I sort of signed it, with the refrain from that song that you played us the other night.”  
“I don’t get it. Why did you take the photo? Why did you publish it?”  
“I took it because photography is one of my hobbies, and I published it because, well, I wanted everyone to see it. The way he’s looking at you there, oh Lori. People hope their whole lives that one day someone might look at them like that.” Gannon looks wistful. “Anyway, I’m quite proud of it, it came out even better than I thought. And after all this ‘ice-cold-bitch’ hype that’s been published about you, I thought if people saw it, then they might see you in a different light. As a person with a lot of heart, who’s vulnerable like anyone else.” 

A memory comes back of Tibbett in the square, looking guilty and telling me to look out for the Special Edition. I’d thought he meant the front page.

I remember Vulpes kissing me that first day, up on the hilltop. Smiling at me with his eyes when we met again at interview in the prison. 

Then I remember him walking into the Shh! Bar, bold as you like. Freely admitting that he had helped in the bombing of the courthouse.

All those memories flit through my mind in the space of a blink. “There’s a dissonance, I just can’t reconcile it. I’m NCR. He’s from a violently opposing faction, they hated the NCR.”  
Gannon waves a hand. “Irrelevant. Factions mean nothing in affairs of the heart. I should know,” he says sagely. “Montagues can love Capulets if their lego clicks.”  
“Gannon, you yourself warned me off him. Just last night, right before we went to Shh!, you told me not to trust him. Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”  
“Yes,” Gannon says simply. “As soon as I developed the picture. It’s right there, Lori. A camera can capture a micro-expression on a person’s face, in between the macro-expressions they want you to see. He –”

“Come on,” Boone growls, justifiably not wanting to get into an academic discussion of facial muscles, micro-expressions and their relationship to emotions, right now. We have important escaping to do.   
“Ok,” says Gannon.  
Something else occurs to me. “Wait, just one more thing. How did you take the picture at the party? I didn’t even see you there.”  
“The red dress picture? I wasn’t. I didn’t take it.”  
“But you wrote the blurb for it.”  
“Not entirely. I wrote the main bit, about the party, from a second-hand source. The editor added the ‘Who Wore It Better’ line.”

“Gannon,” Boone interrupts, getting agitated. “We getting out of here or what?” His voice is not quite low enough.  
“Certainly not! You have only yourselves to blame, no one can help you now,” Gannon says in a clear tone, for the benefit of any external listener. He goes over to Boone and whispers into his ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Boone is nodding as he listens. It’s obviously The Plan (Fluid).

I think about what Gannon said, and the note. With two little blue pen marks, Vulpes has breathed life into me again. I’m no longer content to go to the firing squad and be done with life and its complexities. I want to be with him.

Half a minute later, Gannon knocks on the door, and calls the guard.

“I’ve got a problem in here. She’s not allowing my treatment,” he says to the guard when it opens. “I need you to hold her down.” Behind him I scowl defiantly.  
“Sure,” the guard says with relish. He probably enjoys holding people down. He steps into the room, and locks it behind him, no doubt to stop Boone running away while he’s busy holding me down.

Boone stays well back and within sight of the guard, to put him at ease. The guard grabs me and I struggle as much as I can, gaining his focus fully on me, so Gannon is able to crack him on the back of the head with one of the drawers that he’d removed from the bathroom cupboard and hidden under the bed. 

‘I felt a bit bad doing that,” Gannon mutters, removing the combat knife from the guard’s belt and using it to rip a sheet and make a bandage around the unconscious guard’s profusely bleeding head. 

Efficiently tying off the bandage, he uses the combat knife to cut Boone and my plastic handcuffs off. 

Boone shakes his arms, getting some feeling back. Then he unclips the guard’s holster and removes the zapper gun from it.  
“What is that gun?” I whisper  
“Compliance Regulator. Real rare. Nice to be the one holdin’ it, instead of gettin’ hit by it,” Boone says softly, hefting it in his right hand.  
“Right, now we have one gun,” Gannon whispers, dragging the guard over to the wall so he would be out of view to anyone opening the door. “One more and we’ll be ready to go.”  
“How many guards were in that room?”  
“Two, counting this one. When I came in, at least. Let’s hope no more have arrived.” Gannon moves a blanket over the bloodstains and goes to the door. “Ready?” he mouths. Boone nods.

“Guard, a little help please!” Gannon calls, rapping on the door.  
“What’s going on?” is the shouted reply. The remaining guard outside sounds on edge. I hope he’s not trigger happy.  
“The girl is not being compliant and she’s somehow managed to kick this fellow in the head and knock him out cold!” Gannon answers. “She’s refusing the injection!”  
Nicely done, Gannon. Plausible touches with the “girl” and the “somehow” and the “injection”.

“Stand back from the door!” the Guard orders.   
Gannon stands at the far wall, and calls, “We’re standing back!”  
As soon as the guard steps in - ZAP! Boone electrifies him with the Compliance Regulator and the guard drops like a sack of cement. Boone looks up with a Cheshire grin on his face.  
“Satisfying?” I enquire.  
“You bet.”

Boone stands at the ready in case there are any other guards outside the door, while Gannon takes a SIG-Sauer 14mm pistol and another combat knife from the second guard and then ties him up with sheet strips and props him against the wall next to the first one, carefully gagged so that when he comes around someone in the next room might hear him, but not someone further away in the house.

Gannon gives me his lab coat, which - when buttoned up - is vaguely passable as a mini-dress on me.

“You’re disturbingly good at all this,” I observe to Gannon, watching him expertly check the ammo in the SIG-Sauer and tuck it into his belt under his t-shirt. He offers me one of the combat knives, but I decline. I couldn’t stab anyone. Even my enemies are someone’s sons.  
“We did a lot of this kind of thing, travelling with the Courier, back in the Mojave,” the doctor shrugs. “Good times. And bad. Actually, more bad,” he says thoughtfully, before Boone grabs his shoulder and pushes him out the door.

“Come on, and keep it down from here on in,” Boone whispers. We creep through the living room and then to another door, where Boone listens, then opens it normally as though he were just a guard coming through.

No one on the other side.   
“Are we going to shoot our way out?” I whisper.   
“Hopefully not,” Gannon whispers back. “There is an entrance into the tunnels under the city from this house. We just need to find it. Vulpes told me it exists but he wasn’t sure where in the house it is. I’m guessing it’ll be somewhere in the basement.”

We creep down the hall until we reach the staircase, then Boone and Gannon do location-scoping, perimeter-securing type things, and once I have the all-clear, I follow them down the stairs, past the ground level, and down another flight of stairs to the basement. We don’t see anyone on the way, to my great relief. I don’t doubt Boone and Gannon could efficiently execute anyone we run into, but I’m not certain I’d be able to supress my horror if that happened. I’ve seen one young man shot in front of me today, it’s not something I ever want to see again.

We poke around the basement rooms, looking for a trapdoor. There are lots of boxes of stuff, old books, ornaments and discarded furniture. I find a pair of Gigi’s old shoes and put them on. They pinch my toes, and the heels are higher than I like, but they’re better than bare feet. Some of the general’s old army uniforms are draped across a box, still on their wire hangers. There’s a t-shirt amongst the collar-shirts. I toss it to Boone, and he puts it on. Tight across his shoulders, but it’ll do. So now we’re semi-decent. Maybe enough to walk down the street without attracting too many looks. Hopefully. If we actually find the door out of here. I fervently hope Vulpes remembered that correctly.

I think about Tomasz. Was Curtis telling the truth about the Ultra-Stimpak? Even if he was, Tomasz was shot three times at close range, and lost so much blood before Marlene could staunch it.

“Gannon,” I whisper. He’s up ahead of me, peering at floorboards under an old rug.  
“Have you found it?” Gannon looks round hopefully.  
“No, sorry. Is there such a thing as an Ultra-Stimpak?”  
“Yes. Keep looking, please. We’re running out of time.”

Boone comes back from an adjacent room. “Found something.” He beckons us through, and shows us a trapdoor in the floor of a large built-in wardrobe. Very well-hidden. I would probably never have found it.

Under the trapdoor there’s a metal ladder leading down into blackness. Boone goes first, me next, and Gannon behind me. It’s horrible, going down an unascertainable depth into complete blindness. The high heels are hard to balance in, and the rusty metal of the ladder is hell on my soft office-worker hands. City living makes a person unfit for daredevil escapades. Then I hear Boone reach the bottom and take a couple of steps. I keep going, and soon feel him gently take hold of my hips and guide me down. I step down onto what feels like pebbly concrete. The air is cold and slightly damp. 

Boone keeps hold of me, for which I’m grateful. The darkness is complete, but there are odd sounds echoing through the tunnel. Gnawing, scratching sounds, probably molerats. Or giant radioactive ants. My toes curl at the thought.

“Which way from here?” I whisper once Gannon steps down and joins us.  
“Erm, just a second,” says Gannon’s voice in the inky blackness. I hear him pull out a bunch of keys from his pocket. A tiny pinpoint of light appears. He has a penlight on his keyring.

The light it throws down is just a feeble little circle, but it’s way better than nothing. Now we’ll be able to glimpse the molerats before they bite our knees off.

We creep down the tunnel, following Gannon, who whispers that Vulpes drew him the layout, as best he remembered it. According to what Vulpes told Gannon, Curtis gave him a blueprint to study before he went into the prison, and he memorised it, but didn’t pay so much attention to the tunnels he didn’t intend to use. He had no plans to visit the General’s house. So his ability to redraw for Gannon the section we are in was sketchy; and now Gannon is relying on his own memory of Vulpes’ tentative drawing.

“Where is Vulpes?” I ask. Still whispering, as this place is creepy as can be.  
“He’s waiting for us. Don’t worry, he has a whole gang of lethal Vulpesitas looking after him. The only difficulty he was having was keeping their cherry lip-gloss away from his man-parts.”   
I hear Boone snort behind me.  
“Was he succeeding?” I ask.  
“Mostly. He was certainly trying. He got dealt a few hickeys though, I’m warning you now.”  
“Ew.”  
“Speaking of ew,” Boone says. “What’d Curtis do to you while I was out of the room?”  
“Nothing,” I reply.  
Gannon stops walking and shines the light back at me. “Did Curtis do something?”  
“No.” I can’t see their faces but I can feel both men staring at me. “He didn’t do anything. Drop it. How does Vulpes know Curtis, anyway?”   
Gannon pauses for a couple of seconds, then walks on. “I asked the same thing. He wouldn’t say. But I’ll tell you this, Curtis was stationed at Camp McCarran in the Mojave for quite some years, he was a Captain back then if I remember right, in charge of Bravo Company. Vulpes was all over the Mojave, messing with the NCR’s every effort. I’d say they knew each other there.”  
“How would a mid-to-high ranked NCR officer know very senior Legion officer?”  
“You tell me.” The way Gannon says it, I know exactly what he’s thinking. Curtis has never been who he said he was.

Suddenly Gannon stops and kills the light. Somewhere up ahead there is a sound, but it’s not critters. It’s footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lil' Bard/William Gibson mashup in there, for reference spotters.


	51. Vigil

“You’re cuter in pictures than in real life. No offence,” Aloisia said, looking at the photo of Vulpes embracing Lori in the Shh! bar. She held up the back page of the Bugle for Sophie to look at. “Right? Soph? I mean not that you’re not an über-hottie in real life, you totally are, but in pictures you’re like, fireworks, explosions in the sky,” she added to Vulpes, who was between the girls, reading the front section of the Bugle.

It was 11pm and they were in the Shh! bar themselves, at the very same booth from which the photo was taken.

Vulpes stopped reading and considered Aloisia for a moment. She was interestingly on-off. When she was on, she was explosions in the sky herself. When she was off she collapsed in a heap as though she might never move again.

It had been a stiflingly hot day, and was still warm inside. Vulpes had been glad to take off the scratchy army jacket that had belonged to someone’s brother. Now he sat, outwardly relaxed, in an army-issue t-shirt, sipping water and waiting.

The only other people in the bar were the two bartenders, Jip and Jerimi, getting ready for the night’s business. The use of Shh! as a temporary hideout had been negotiated by Dr Gannon, on the promise that all outlaws would be out of public sight by midnight, and all teenagers would be out of the building entirely by then.

There were rooms with beds upstairs, and Gannon had booked two for the night. At vast expense, since they were normally rented by the hour.

Sophie was leaning forward on the small table, steepling her fingers, staring into space, thinking. She was always scheming, relentless in her pursuit of her interests, Vulpes thought. She didn’t have looks, but she had cunning, and she had confidence and charisma in spades. She would have made a good frumentarius.

He hadn’t wanted to sit between them, since it didn’t make for a good escape position, but they had insisted; and teenage girls, Vulpes discovered, were nigh-on impossible to win an argument with.

Aloisia had her legs up on the table, ankles crossed, her torso slumped sideways against Vulpes and her head leaning against his bicep. Shiny pink hair tickled the inside of his elbow.

He hoped Fliss would arrive soon. Every minute that ticked by made it harder to wait here, safely hidden but frustratingly blind.

“Are you, like, with her or something?” asked Aloisia, still looking at the picture. “This lawyer chica?”  
Vulpes cleared his throat. He hadn’t spoken in over an hour. “Yes.”  
“Huh.” Aloisia moved the picture to a few inches from her nose to study it more carefully. “She’s ok, I guess. But, y’know, I think you could do way better.” She looked up at Vulpes and grinned, wiggling her eyebrows.  
“I could be your father. Almost your grandfather.”  
“So?” Aloisia asked, magnanimous. “That just means you have plenty of experience. I bet you know exactly what a girl likes.” Her eyes glittered naughtily up at him. “Don’cha, daddykins?”

Vulpes chuckled softly, despite himself. Having his own private gang of moist-pantied devotees was a strange experience, but he couldn’t say it wasn’t amusing.

He wondered how Cato was handling it, in the Vulpesitas basement HQ. He and Fliss had carried him there on a stretcher, when it got dark, Fliss wearing one of Gannon’s spare lab coats to impersonate a medic, Sophie and Aloisia providing the necessary distractions to any would-be interested passers-by.

Finding Cato still in Picus’ apartment, alone and unaware of recent events, had been a huge relief to Vulpes. It suggested that Picus hadn’t gone all bad.

Not that Vulpes would ever fully trust Picus again.

Now Cato was safe, albeit having to submit to the obsessional admiration of the Vulpesitas charged with his care. His beard was in grave danger of being shaved off while he slept. When Vulpes left, Cato’s feet were soaking in a bowl of soapy water, his heavily-muscled frame was being massaged with a flower-scented lotion, and his matted hair shampooed, probably for the first time in his life. Cato had looked surprised and confused. But not unhappy.

Vulpes looked at the clock again. 11:13. Gannon and Lori should be here by now.


	52. Lights in the darkness

The footsteps recede, to silence. The tunnels have odd acoustics, and it’s impossible to tell how far away the steps were, and if they were getting nearer or further.

Gannon feels for my hand, and taking it, tiptoes forward in the darkness. I hold Boone’s arm in turn. We creep along the tunnel for half a minute, then Gannon pauses, and abruptly turns left. He walks forward a few moments, then his foot kicks against a stone. The ground under our feet is becoming rougher, and our steps crunch softly.

Gannon flicks on his penlight, and sweeps it ahead of us. Debris, a huge pile of cracked and broken chunks of concrete, blocking the tunnel. Some of the chunks are a full yard in diameter. I stare at the destruction for a moment, realisation dawning. This must be the remains of the courthouse. Defendants were brought from the prison through the tunnel, directly up into the dock. I wonder if this is how the bomber accessed the courthouse to place the bomb. 

Now, unfortunately, there’s no access, just rubble.

“Hide,” Gannon whispers urgently. Why? I think. The footsteps seem to have gone. But maybe he knows something about acoustics or the shape of the tunnels that I don’t. I take my heels off and hold them in one hand. Boone, Gannon and I climb gingerly up the rubble and tuck ourselves behind big enough chunks of cracked concrete to be hidden from anyone looking from the mouth of the tunnel. 

It’s cool down here and there’s too much cement dust. I only just manage to supress a sneeze. Seconds tick by, in silence. I open my mouth to ask Gannon why we are hiding when the footsteps have clearly gone, when suddenly I hear them again, this time with a voice. 

Coming closer. 

A man’s voice, deep and relaxed, with curl of humour in it, says, “It was probably molerats.” 

I instantly recognise Colonel Curtis.

Across the mouth of the tunnel a powerfully bright flashlight shines ahead, bobbing slightly as its holder walks.  
“Come on, my girl,” Curtis says, warm and soothing. “Let’s go home.”  
“Just a sec,” Gigi’s voice replies. A touch of steel in her voice. The flashlight comes around the corner and sweeps over the rubble, half-blinding me.

There’s something primally frightening about the act of hiding while being hunted. My instinct is to leap up and run for my life, but there’s no way to escape from this dead end. So I force myself to be perfectly still. _Don’t even breathe,_ I tell myself. 

The light passes over the slab I’m hiding behind, then moves to the one Boone is behind, where it pauses. He crouches in place, one hand on the Compliance Regulator. His eyes meet mine and I see he’s not afraid. He’s itching to be discovered, to start the fight.

The light moves off Boone’s slab and back to mine. I try to shut off my aura, my body heat, my pulse.

“Come on, babe,” Curtis says again. His voice is so close now.  
“I heard something,” Gigi answers, casting the light around the top of the pile where the big slabs are. Where we’re hiding. She lets it play on my slab again.  
“Just critters. Come on. I want to take you in the General’s bed again.”

He must have pinched her or tickled her, because I hear her giggle and the beam of light jiggles and jerks away. Mercifully, their footsteps move away too. We stay frozen in place for several more minutes, inky blackness surrounding us again.

I shift my weight and accidentally make a crunching sound with the piece of concrete I’m crouching on. I freeze again, and start counting in my head.

300 seconds later there’s still no sound or light. Gannon’s little penlight flicks on and we creep out of our hidey-holes and sneak back down the slope of rubble. Gannon tries to look up and down the tunnels but his torch is too weak. We resume our trek. 

“That was close,” Gannon whispers after a while, sounding surprisingly cheerful. Like Boone, I almost think he’s half-enjoying this.  
“That was a missed opportunity to kill them both with no one seeing,” Boone whispers back.  
“Unlike them, we’re civilised,” Gannon murmurs. “Or at least I think Lori is. Did you want us to kill them, Lori?”  
“No.”  
“Right. But we’d better hurry because they could be going to discover you missing in a minute or two. Up here.” He turns another corner, into a short dead-end corridor with another rusty metal ladder at the end of it.

The first thing I see when my head pops up out of the manhole cover is stars. There are a million stars above us. I hadn’t realised it was so late at night. The second thing I see is a red pinprick, glowing and fading. A cigarette. Someone smoking in a darkened doorway, passively watching us emerge from the ground. 

I look around but don’t recognise where we are. Somewhere in the city, in an unpopulated sidestreet. The industrial part of town, perhaps.

The smoker steps forward. It’s a young woman, tall and angular. Tough features, narrow eyes.

Gannon secures the manhole cover back in place and straightens up. “This is Fliss,” he introduces. “Fliss, Boone, Lori. Now let’s go, and fast, because unless they went straight to bed, by now the escape will have been discovered.”   
“I bet they did go straight to bed,” Boone says. “Curtis always had a reputation for womanising. He fucked every female soldier in Camp McCarran. Ceptin’ Betsy, of course. She saw right through him.”  
“I think Betsy saw through guys generally,” Gannon answers. “Fliss? You ready?”

Fliss takes a white bundle out of her bag, and puts it on. A lab coat. From the doorway she’d been leaning in, she pulls down a medical stretcher, and lays it on the ground. 

I have to relinquish the lab coat that Gannon lent me so he can use it again, and get on the stretcher, bare, where they cover me with a silver emergency blanket of the light and waterproof type that comes with stretchers. Then Gannon and Boone pick me up, and Fliss leads the way, the medic in charge of an emergency, walking as fast as possible short of running.

We travel out of the sidestreet, and zigzag through more narrow moonlit streets. I see the moon above me, appearing and disappearing behind taller buildings. I am immobilised again, carried along by strange fates. A surreal end to a surreal day. 

I don’t know where we’re going but I hope it’s my apartment. I’d like to see my gramophone again. And my clothes. A shower and a shot of whisky wouldn’t go amiss either.


	53. Interesting rooms

We arrive at a street door that is not mine. Fliss knocks softly and after a moment someone opens. As soon as we’re inside, Boone and Gannon lower the stretcher to the floor and I struggle up in my silly sparkly Gigi-heels, clutching the silver emergency blanket to me in a hardly-worthwhile attempt at modesty.

We’re in the Shh! club, and it must be before midnight, because it’s empty. 

Gannon walks over to Jip Bishop, the barman, and they have a short conversation, inaudible from where I stand. Jip points at the door then looks at his watch as he talks. Gannon nods. Jip goes into the storeroom and comes back with a little plastic bag, two big canvas bags and two keys, passing the lot over the bar. Gannon thanks him and comes back, wordlessly handing one key to me. It has a 6 on it. Behind him, Jip nods me a greeting.

Gannon says, “Vulpes left around four or five minutes ago. Didn’t say where he was going but it was probably to find us, since we’re pretty late.” He looks at Fliss. “Maybe you can run and catch him.”

Without answering, Fliss turns and heads out the door.

Gannon leads Boone and I across the room, to an unobtrusive door next to the bar, through which leads to a stairway. We climb the stairs. There is a short hallway with three doors off each side at the top. Rooms 5 and 6 are nearest the stairs. I use the key and enter Room 6, finding the light-switch to my left. There’s a double bed in the middle of the room and taking up most of the space, a chair in one corner, and a huge, dormant robot standing in the other corner, like a room decoration.

A doorway inside leads to a miniscule bathroom with an uncurtained shower. The toilet is squat-type, and the shower, if turned on, would splash all over the sink and the toilet.

It’s only after I’ve sat down on the bed and stared into space for a few seconds, wondering how safe are we here and where is Vulpes and what am I going to do about clothes… that I begin to notice the murals on the walls.

There are two themes, intertwined. Robots, and sex. Astro-robo-sex, specifically. Robots inserting thick round shiny metal probes into men and women alike, the humans all dressed in random pieces of 1950s-style imaginary space-wear. Not much, mind. Just a helmet here, a pair of gloves there, the occasional elegant artists-impression laser pistol, nothing like the chunky unromantic-looking laser pistols we really have. Everyone seems to be floating in zero gravity. _That must make thrusting difficult_ , I think idly. Still, credit to the artist. Everything is beautifully rendered, down to the stylised drops of… is that sweat? flying off the bodies. 

I’m so tired and confused and weirded-out looking at this strange art that when Gannon knocks on the door I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Lori, this is Vulpes’ stuff,” he says, coming in and dumping one of the canvas rucksacks Jip gave him onto the chair. “I’ll just leave it here for him. Do you want to come over into me and Boone’s room for something to eat?”

“This room is weird, Gannon.”  
“All the rooms here are weird. I actually got this one for you because it’s the least weird. Come on. You must be starving, Boone was. He said you got nothing to eat all day.”  
He’s right, I haven’t eaten since yesterday, I realise. But so much had been going on I hadn’t noticed my hunger at all.

We cross the hall into Room 5, me still wrapped in my shiny emergency blanket. Boone grunts a greeting from the bed where he’s sitting, chowing on what looks and smells like a brahmin burger.

“Take-out from Dusty’s Cantina, courtesy of the Vulpesitas,” says Gannon, handing one to me from the small bag Jip had given him. “Room-temperature now, but nutritious all the same.”

I take a huge bite, sitting on the bed next to Boone. It seems like the most delicious thing I have ever tasted, though that might be the hunger speaking. 

While I eat, I look around the guys’ room. Gannon was right, it way weirder than mine. Still a sex theme, but this time it’s deathclaws. Humans and deathclaws, getting it on. The humans are NCR soldiers, male and female, but like the space suits in the robot-themed room, there’s not much uniform left on them, just enough to designate their occupation. On the wall facing me, a Ranger is getting his ass stretched by a giant deathclaw cock, wider than any ass could ever withstand in real life. Surely. Then again, what do I know. The expression on the Ranger’s face is somewhere between ecstasy and agony. The deathclaw’s expression says ‘Puny human! I’m going to eat you the moment I finish fucking you!’

“Is this going to give you nightmares?” I ask, indicating the depiction.  
“Some people are into this stuff, you know, Lori,” says Gannon mildly.  
I glance at Boone, who just shrugs. I take Gannon’s point and shut up.

Gannon gives me a white t-shirt, plain brown trousers and a black leather belt, all his own. He’s taller than me so I have to roll the trouser bottoms up a bit, but it feels so good to be dressed again.

We discuss Vulpes. Apparently, he was supposed to wait for us here. According to his and Gannon’s plans we were expected to arrive at the Shh! club at around 11pm. Jip told Gannon that he kicked the Vulpesitas out at 11:30, since they were not old enough to be at the club when it opened, and that Vulpes had waited another 20 or so minutes then left without saying where he was going.

It’s now 12:08. Vulpes must have thought we were in trouble and gone looking for us. 

“Maybe he’s just realised what a bad idea this all is, and skipped town,” I say, keeping any emotion out of my voice.  
“He left his things here. And besides, I’m convinced he cares about you,” Gannon returns.  
“Rationally, why would he care about me? He must meet women all the time on his travels. There’s nothing special about me.”  
“You may not recognise the quality he likes in you, and he may not be consciously aware of it either, but it’s easy to see from the outside. You’re a perfectionist. And he’s one too, so that is why he’s attracted to you.”  
Boone says, “Being nice to talk to and easy on the eye probably helps.”  
I have to laugh at Gannon’s wild theory. “I can’t be a perfectionist!”  
“That’s what perfectionists always say,” Gannon points a finger at me. “They think they’re not perfect enough to be a perfectionist.”  
“Tosh. I’m anything but perfect. I make mistakes all the time. Look what a situation I’ve gotten myself into.”  
“You didn’t get yourself into it. It was done by others, you’ve merely been on the receiving end.”  
“Well, I should have foreseen it, Gannon. Or at very least reacted differently. I should have protected Tomasz.”  
“Which, again, is what a perfectionist would think. You take responsibility for everything, and feel like a failure when things outside your control happen.”  
“Are you talking about perfectionism, or control freakery?”  
“No, you’re not a control freak, I don’t think. You don’t try to control other people. You’re a person who prioritises things in your life very carefully, tries to do the high-priority things absolutely perfectly, and takes it as a personal failure when something goes wrong.”  
“Really, isn’t that normal? Doesn’t everyone do that?”  
“It’s within the range of normal, but no, not everyone does that. Far from it,” Gannon smiles. “It’s not a bad quality, Lori. In fact on the whole I think it’s an excellent trait. But it can make life difficult for you. It makes you very vulnerable to disappointment and heartbreak. Why would be why, I’m just guessing here, you make an effort to distance yourself from people.”  
“Well. Thank you, doctor. I feel… assessed.”  
“But not found wanting. It’s who you are. You will always search for perfection, even when you’re already perfect. Take that as my professional opinion, and remember it whenever you start to feel frustrated or alienated.”  
“Ok. Thank you.”  
“Believe me, I know all about alienation. And frustration, for that matter.”  
Boone murmurs, “Don’t we all.”

☣☣☣

I have a lot to think about as I cross the hall back to my room. Music floats up the stairs, _Ramblin’ Man_ by Hank Williams. 

“Some folks might say-ee that I’m no good, that I wouldn’t settle down if I could,” Hanks yowls as I enter my room and lock the door behind me. I pause before stepping away. Maybe I shouldn’t lock it, Vulpes might come in. Then I remember, no need to worry - locks mean nothing to him anyway.

Vulpes’ dirty, much repaired rucksack is sitting where Gannon left it. I’m gripped by the sudden urge to search it, to try to find out more about this strange man who has settled his focus on me. Don’t search it, it’s his private belongings, you have no right, I tut. But then – maybe it contains more explosives? I need to know what I’m sleeping two feet away from! Not to mention the trouble I could be in if I was caught with it. Not that my reputation could get much muddier…

Curiosity wins over, though I try to convince myself it’s just reasonable caution. Hefting it up to bring it over to the bed, it’s incredibly heavy. Not a promising sign. There’s definitely more than just clothes in here. 

There are very few clothes in fact. Just a tightly bundled set of leather armour. Unfolding it, the scent of him comes right into the room. A jacket and trousers, the leather old and worn, moulded into the shape of his body, elbows creased into permanent angles. He was wearing this the day we met, up on the hill, and the memory gives me such an emotional rush I can’t resist pressing the lining of the jacket to my face and breathing in his heady scent. Vulpes. Where are you?

I put the jacket on. It feels strange, heavy and cool against my skin. Alien, an artefact from the Wastes. Utterly unlike any clothing I have ever owned. I feel in the pockets. A filthy handkerchief. Some loose .44 bullets. A keyring with a odd assortment of keys on it.

Investigating the remaining contents of the rucksack, I pull out a large combat knife in a thick leather sheath, a gas mask, several small but dense technical manuals relating to subjects like vault design and maintenance, and computer programming, all annotated in the margins in a miniature version of the handwriting that I recognise as Vulpes’, and a frayed map of the southwestern states. Various handwritten markings on that too, the meaning of which I cannot interpret.

Below that there are a whole heap of small tools, electrical components, switches and wires. I tip them out onto the bed.

The last thing to fall out takes my breath away. It is something horrifying. I’ve never seen one in real life before, but I’ve heard about them and sometimes seen pictures in the newspaper. A slave collar. Not used in the NCR, too barbaric even for us. Another Wasteland artefact. It’s made of heavy, dull metal, with a large hinge that must chafe the wearer. There’s a controller with it, old, with the names for the buttons faded away, perhaps by sunlight, perhaps by use.

Why would he have this? At best, to harvest the parts to repair something else. At worst – well. The thought leaves me cold.

☣☣☣

Vulpes climbed the ladder that lead up to the Oliver’s mansion, a small flashlight gripped between his teeth. The rungs were rusty at the sides, smooth with regular use in the centres.

In his belt was a silenced .44 pistol; in his left trouser pocket, a switchblade. Both his own, recovered from his rucksack after the Vulpesitas broke into the apartment where Cato was holed up, and stole Cato away to the new hideout, taking the mens’ belongings with them. The rucksack was now stored at the Shh! Club awaiting his return. Not that it mattered all that much, it didn’t have anything terribly precious in it. He didn’t own anything of that description.

At the top was a trapdoor. He gingerly pushed open, revealing the inside of some sort of a closet. 

Climbing out, he made his way through the basement, and up the stairs. There was no one about, and no sound.

Room after room. The place was huge. Each time he pushed open a door, he held his finger on the trigger. But the rooms were uninhabited. Just opulent furniture, plush carpets, crystal whisky decanters, and nobody.

Then he heard the what sounded like water running in the pipes. He crept along a hallway, opening doors. Outside the last door, the white-noise sound of water was clearer. Along with a very faint buzzing sound. This was the room. The doorknobs were the round kind which could turn without being too obvious to anyone inside. He turned it, quickly, and pushed open the door, standing back. Inside the lavish room was an enormous bed and in the centre of the bed was Gigi Oliver. Naked, spread-eagled, and handcuffed in place. The buzzing sound came from a vibrating implement that appeared to have partially slipped out from between her legs. There was a door to the side of the room, ajar, and a powerful shower could be heard running behind it. Steam curled around the edge of the door.

Gigi was gagged, but not blindfolded. She saw him coming towards her across the room, and writhed and growled helplessly. She tried, but couldn’t make enough noise to overcome the noise of the shower. Vulpes approached her, making sure to stay on the far side of the bed from the shower door. She looked up at him, eyes fiery, and tried to speak, but her words were known only to her. She didn’t close her eyes when the barrel of the .44 touched her forehead. Her eyes stayed locked onto Vulpes’ as he pulled the trigger.

The water stopped, with a clunking sound in the pipes, and Picus stepped out of the bathroom, towelling off. He paused as he took in the scene.  
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, his voice a little resentful, a little regretful, but mostly resigned.  
Vulpes said nothing.  
“Now you’ve fucked everything up.”  
Silence.  
“I needed her, to control Moore and Hsu. Fuck. It’s gonna be no picnic dealing with them now. Plus people are gonna think I killed her,” Picus grumbled, leaning over and picking up the sex toy. He switched it off and dropped it in a drawer next to the bed, then started unlocking the handcuffs, and arranging Gigi’s arms into a natural pose by her sides.

Vulpes said, “You can deal with Moore and Hsu on your own, I’m sure you’re more than capable. But I will take responsibility for her death. Don’t worry.”  
Picus removed Gigi’s gag. “Yeah, don’t worry, that’s your catchphrase isn’t it? Fucking molten lava could be falling on our heads and you’d say don’t worry.”  
Vulpes ignored Picus’ complaints. “Where’s Treichler?”  
“Thought you had her.”  
Vulpes gave Picus a very hard look, that Picus knew from old, and the younger man flinched a little. “She’s gone. Doctor Arcade Gannon came by and snuck her out, along with Craig Boone. Think I passed her in the tunnels, actually. Hiding in the courthouse rubble. That would have been about an hour ago.”

☣☣☣

When Vulpes climbed in the second-floor window at the back of the Shh! Bar, he found Lori’s room dark, and Lori asleep on the bed, dressed in Gannon’s clothes. She was curled up on her side, facing the weird robot. He had seen robots like that in New Vegas. Hopefully this one was decommissioned. Vulpes’ pack was sitting on a chair. He stealthily opened it and felt around for what he wanted. Even by touch, he could tell someone had been through it. Everything was back in the right order, but not packed tightly the way he packed it. The slave collar was at the bottom. He pulled it out, then felt around for the remote and pulled that out too.

Back on the street, he took side alleys to a bakery he had seen, that someone was working in, getting fresh bread ready for the morning. The door was ajar, letting delicious baking smells out into the air. Vulpes stepped silently inside and moved fast to the baker, who was bending over, peering into the lower half of a wall-sized oven. When the man straightened up, Vulpes clicked the collar into place around the man’s neck and quickly stepped back and out of the man’s reach. The baker was nonplussed, feeling the cold metal around his neck. He stared open-mouthed at Vulpes.  
“You’re …” he started.  
Vulpes held up the remote and wiggled it a little for the man to notice. “My name is Vulpes Inculta,” he said. “Say it.”  
“Vulpes Inculta.”  
“You are wearing a slave collar, and this is the remote. I press _this_ button, and your head is sheared off and falls to the ground. I press _that_ button, and the collar explodes, taking you and everyone within a 20-foot radius with it.”

Vulpes was lying, there was no shearing function, and the radius was closer to three feet. The collar didn’t work and the remote had no batteries, either. But the baker didn’t know any of that. He started to nod his head and then stopped as if afraid it might trigger the device.  
“Y-yes,” he said, trembling.  
“What’s my name?”  
“Vulpes In-Inculta.”  
“You will walk to the military complex, down Carlson Street. No deviations, or the collar will explode. You will ask to see the Military Police. You will tell them that Vulpes Inculta shot Gigi Oliver dead, in her bed, one hour ago. Right here.” Vulpes tapped the spot where he’d shot her. “Repeat the message to me.”  
“V-Vulpes Inculta shot Gigi Oliver in her bed, an hour ago. R-right here. Dead.” The baker gingerly touched the same spot. His eyes were open wide and he was holding his head very still, now.  
“Can I w-walk without this thing exploding?”  
“Yes. And I can hear everything you say, through a microphone on the collar. Deliver the message, and I will unlock it for you.” Two more lies.  
“Where will you be?”  
“I’ll find you.” Vulpes suddenly smiled, though it barely showed on his face. “Don’t worry.”

☣☣☣

I wake up in the dark and become aware of someone breathing quietly behind me. Twisting to look, Vulpes is lying next to me. Moonlight is coming in the open window and I see his silhouette and know it’s him.  
I sit up and face him.  
He sits up too, and holds me close.   
After a time he says, “Lori.”  
“Oh, love,” I whisper, hardly knowing I’m saying it out loud. My cheeks are wet and I can’t quite see.  
Despite, or perhaps because of his warmth, I find myself shivering. Only now we’re safe is it really hitting me how close we all came to the precipice today.

Vulpes’ embrace is the only thing holding me up. He stokes my back with one thumb, and touches his lips silently to my ear. I turn my face to look in his eyes, glinting faintly in the moonlight. Soft kisses alight on my mouth.

He helps me out of Gannon’s clothes, and then kisses his way around my body, reacquainting himself with it.

When his mouth reaches my inner thighs, I begin to quiver. When his tongue glides along the slit that leads to my sex, I gasp with pleasure, and hold my breath as the tongue slides smoothly in, licking inside, up to my clit, then down to my opening, and deeper inside. He hasn’t shaved and his stubble is scratching me but it just adds to the sensory stimulation, and even greater pleasure. His tongue glides back up to my clit, lapping gently at it, while his fingers penetrate me, first one, then two, exploring inside me, stretching me gently.

My heart feels like it’s going to burst when he moves on top of me and enters me fully. I moan without worrying if anyone can hear me. These rooms are designed for sex, after all. Vulpes maintains a very slow pace, making me ache for more. I feel every inch of him sliding into me, deeper and deeper until I can’t imagine holding any more, then out, just as slowly, letting me feel the texture of him, the heat coming off his body, and thrillingly aware of the power he’s holding back. He won’t hold back for long. He can’t. It’s coming.

_Slam._ I cry out but am stifled by his mouth, kissing me brutally hard now, then _slam_ , another punishing penetration, then a third, then he pulls out of me and applies his mouth to my cunt again, clawing my vulva open roughly and licking and sucking hard on my clit. I feel teeth but he doesn’t bite, not hard anyway, instead rearing up, pushing me onto my side, and entering me with his long cock again. I press my face into the pillow, and pant in delirious pleasure while he fucks me into oblivion. 

He can’t keep it up for long. He pulls out again and hot cum spills over my bottom and spurts across my lower back.

“That didn’t go exactly as planned,” he says as we lie side by side, our breathing slowly calming.  
“I thought it was good.”  
“I wanted to make you come. I lost control.” He says it thoughtfully, as though a scientist, pondering unexpected results in an experiment.  
“It worked for me. Maybe you should lose control more often.”  
Vulpes makes no answer.  
I get up in the dark, intending to go wash up in the bathroom.  
“Do you mind if I turn on the –”  
“GREETINGS. FISTO IS PROGRAMMED TO PLEASE.”  
The robotic voice comes out of nowhere and all my muscles go into a mad spasm of fright for a second. I can feel Vulpes next to me scrambling onto his hands and knees.  
“I AM PROGRAMMED FOR YOUR PLEASURE. PLEASE ASSUME THE POSITION.”

It’s coming from the dormant robot in the corner. Not so dormant now, though. Small but brilliantly bright red lights are flashing and the robot is advancing on us.  
“PLEASE ASSUME THE POSITION,” it repeats. A cover has slid open on its lower torso and a massive robotic phallus is protruding, swivelling slightly and glistening with some kind of lubricant.  
“I AM PROGRAMMED FOR YOUR PLEASURE.”  
“No service required! Withdraw! Decommission!” Vulpes yells, sounding almost as panicked as I am.  
No avail. The red lights keep flashing, getting closer. The dripping mega-phallus is making a whirring, grinding sound. Up close I can see it’s all covered with bumps. Extra texture for extra pleasure.  
“FISTO IS PROGRAMMED TO PLEASE. YOU WILL ASSUME THE POSITION. NUMBNESS WILL SUBSIDE IN SEVERAL MINUTES.”  
“Switch off! Shut down!” Vulpes yells. He seems to think this thing is voice-controlled. Hmm. It came on when I said…  
“Turn off!” I command. The robot stops advancing, the terrifying phallus withdraws, and the red lights flicker and die.

There’s a silence. After a few moments recovering from the shock, I go to the bathroom because now I really need to pee. When I get back, Vulpes has shoved the robot back into the corner.  
“What the hell is that?” I ask.  
“It’s a sexbot.”  
“Jeez. It’s about the least sexy thing I ever saw. Did you know it was working?”  
“No. I thought it was decoration. Although I suppose I should have guessed,” Vulpes answers, gesturing around at the murals on the walls.

We lie back down, and a comfortable silence envelops us. There’s still adrenaline in my veins though.  
“I don’t know if I can get back to sleep now.”  
“Let’s try.”  
“Ok.”  
“Right after I make you come.”  
I smile. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”  
“Never.”


	54. The Wonders of Modern Medicine: Pt 1.

FRIDAY  
4:02 a.m., Friday May 4th, 2283

I wake up in the early hours. The room is silent and dark. Reaching to Vulpes’ side, it’s empty. The sheets feel cold.

Then I hear the sound of soft breathing - coming from my other side. Blinking in the darkness, I peer down. The silhouette of Vulpes is on the floor next to my side of the bed, the side of his head resting on his forearm. I guess the bed was too soft for him. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be anywhere near FISTO.

* * *

Later in the morning I wake again, from a deeper sleep, bleary-eyed and confused. It takes me a while to work out where I am. Oh that’s right, in a robot-porn boudoir, hiding from the Military Police. Or more specifically, from the new boss, Captain-General Gigi Oliver. 

Thinking of Gigi, I recall her unexpected visit to my apartment, how she hadn’t liked the music I was playing. _The Other Woman_. She’d admitted shooting Major Gilles. How? How had no one seen her? And was the motivation really fear that Gilles would reveal her affair with Curtis to the General? It didn’t explain Gilles secret boyfriend. Was it Curtis himself? Somehow I didn’t think it was. Curtis hadn’t said anything, but I’m pretty good at reading people, and I hadn’t gotten the impression that he had any particular feelings towards Gilles. 

_The Other Woman_. Brenda Gilles and Lee Oliver. Could it be? Gilles attempting to usurp Gigi’s place at his side? But it would fit. The problems in their marriage, prior affairs alluded to in the press, and that tense exchange at the Olivers’ dinner party. Gilles’ top secret lover, that no one could identify, but who was making her very happy. Gilles dying at Gigi’s hand. The general dying at Gigi’s hand. Gilles had come into a barely stable situation, and rocked the boat to the point that several people had had to fall out and drown.

“Hey Vulpes, do you know if Curtis was having an affair with Major Gilles? Or could it’ve been General Oliver himself?”  
No answer. I check the floor. Not there any more. The bathroom door is open, no one there. 

Now I notice that Vulpes’ rucksack is gone from the chair. There’s a scrap of paper there instead, which I unfold.

IF YOU’RE READING THIS THEN I DIDN’T SET FIRE TO THE ROOM ON MY WAY OUT.   
SHALL WE SLEEP TONIGHT SOMEWHERE WITH A BETTER VIEW.  
X.

I stare at the note for a while, then sniff it - I don’t know why - but it only smells of newsprint and ink. 

I don’t know what time it is, but it feels like time to get up. Putting Arcade’s loaned shirt and trousers on, I cross the hall to knock on Gannon and Boone’s door. To my surprise, there’s whistling from within.

Gannon opens the door, fully dressed, and welcomes me in. The whistling continues behind him. I step into the room, trying not to look at the unsettling deathclaw art. Boone is sitting on the bed, fully dressed, tying his bootlaces. Whistling _Big Iron_. Weird.

I sit down next to Boone. “Craig, I can’t help but notice you’re doing your boots up, as though you’re planning to go out for a stroll and not be shot on sight.”  
The whistling pauses. “That’s the plan.”  
Gannon, leaning against the wall, explains. “Vulpes came across the hall early this morning to talk to us. He said that he made a deal with Ronald Curtis last night. You, me and Boone are all off the hook, and free to go home. Didn’t he tell you?”  
“No.”  
“All charges to be dropped, no further ... what do you call them? Warrants?”  
“What about Vulpes?”   
“He’s still on the hook. Now they want him for the murder of both Olivers.”  
“What!?”  
“Er, yes. Gigi Oliver was apparently shot dead last night.”

I’m aghast. Though I’d started to loathe Gigi, I hate the idea of Vulpes being the one who killed her. “Did he do it?”  
“I don’t know, all he said was, they want him for it.”  
That’s different. “It was probably Colonel Curtis.” Hopefully.  
“Ha,” says Boone, meaning what, I don’t know.  
“We’ll probably never know,” Gannon shrugs, “and I’m fine with that.” He heads into their bathroom, runs the tap, and comes out drinking a glass of water.

I don’t know if I’m fine with it. “Did he say where he was going?”   
“He’s not with you?”  
“No.”  
“He might have gone to see… oh never mind.”  
“Who?”  
“His girlfriends,” Boone says, grimacing.  
“The Vulpesitas,” Gannon clarifies. “They’re harbouring Cato.”  
“Girlfriends?”  
“Boone was joking.”  
“Not according to what you told me,” Boone mutters, using a corner of the blanket to shine his boots.

I stare at Gannon until he relents.  
“Ah Lori, forget about it,” Gannon tries. I stare harder. “It was just that when I found him in their - lair, I guess, would be the word for it – he was naked and they were, er, touching him, well, inappropriately.”  
“You mean, he was having sex with them?” I keep emotion out of my voice, because it’s futile to be jealous of teenage girls. Nor is there much point in being disappointed if my war-criminal lover turns out to have loose sexual morals, for that matter.  
“No no,” Gannon waves a hand to clear that image away. “Not sex. Just, um… When I got there he was reclining on cushions and they were all around him, worshipping him and kissing his feet and hands.”   
“You sure he owes them a favour? Sounds more like he owes them a fee,” I mutter. Maybe a smidgeon bitterly.  
“He wasn’t kissing them, though, Lori,” Gannon says, perhaps noticing that I look a bit demoralised. “Or even touching them at all. Or at least not deliberately. And he wasn’t aroused.”   
“Ok, thank you. I get the picture.”  
“Not aroused, but, phew. The man’s a fine sight, I’ll say that,” Gannon goes off-tangent, eyes all dreamy.  
“C’we stop talking about Inculta’s dick, now?” Boone interrupts. He stands up and faces me. “Lori. Goin’ to my ma’s, you wanna tag along? Think she’d like to see you.”  
“That, or you don’t want to have the ‘Gabriel’ conversation with her alone?”  
“Not denying it,” Boone says with a sigh. “Gonna be a hell of a conversation.”

I think about it. “Ok. I can come along with you to Marlene’s for a little while, but I’d like to stop by the hospital and see Tomasz before that. And I need to go home and get properly dressed before anything else.”  
“Deal,” Boone nods, relieved.  
“Doctor? Where are you going to go?” I ask Gannon.  
“We’re still planning to leave town, so I’m going to finish sorting out my stuff at the lab. I can come with you to the hospital, though, if it helps.”  
“Yes, please.” I hate to think of what condition Tommy might be in.

As we troop down the stairs, Gannon says, “By the way, did I hear you and Vulpes using FISTO last night?”  
“You certainly did not.”  
“Could have sworn…”  
“Shut up.”

* * *

The day is clear and cool, the cloying air of yesterday gone and replaced by a light breeziness. Walking down the street, I feel strange. People glance at me and I avoid their eyes. After the revelations of what the NCR high command allowed to happen to tribals at Bitter Springs and considered acceptable treatment of prisoners of war in its internment camps, this hadn’t felt like my city any more. Now after what happened in the square yesterday, these don’t feel like my people anymore either.

Boone starts whistling again as we walk down the street towards my apartment.   
Gannon and I lag behind him a little. “Gannon?” I ask. “Have you noticed that since Thursday, Boone has cheered right up? I mean he was suicidally depressed… now he’s whistling.”  
“Er, hm, you might be right,” Gannon says, sounding evasive.  
“So… are you two having an affair?”  
“No. I wish,” Gannon replies shortly. He sighs. “Or at least, I used to wish. I gave up wishing a long time ago. We tried something once, back in the Mojave. It didn’t work out too well. Things were awkward after that. I was surprised he came to see me when he got here, to be honest. But now we seem to be friends again, so I’m happy to leave it at that.”  
“Oh. That’s disappointing.”  
“Why?”

I wait for a mother and two small children to pass us before answering quietly, “Well, because the only other thing that changed since Thursday was that Boone found out what happened to Vulpes in the internment camp. So I guess his newfound happiness stems from that. Which is a damned ugly sentiment, and disappointing because I thought Boone was a bigger man than that.”  
“Ah, hm,” intones Gannon, sounding even more evasive. “Well… no. I don’t think hearing about that made him happy. He’s bitter about Vulpes’ Legion past, sure, but he’s not so shitty a person that hearing about someone he hated and once feared experiencing extreme torture would change his whole mood for the better. Not that I know exactly what the nature of the extreme torture was, since you refused to tell me. But by that very fact, I can make an educated guess.”  
I ponder that. “I’d like to think better of Boone too. But his whole demeanour has changed since Dr Henry told us that stuff on Wednesday night. At the beginning of this week he was screaming at me. Literally screaming ‘fuck you’ at me, in open court. But yesterday, it was like he hardly cared that he was captured and paraded in chains like a yao guai. And now he’s strolling along, not a care in the world, whistling _Big Iron_.”  
“Well,” Gannon says again. His voice drops to a murmur and he keeps a furtive eye on Boone, walking ahead of us. “Ok. Yes. He is different because he’s, ah, medicated. But don’t mention it to him, please, whatever you do.”  
I match his low tone. “He’s embarrassed to be on medication?”  
“Er, I would say, more unaware, than embarrassed.” Gannon looks shamefaced.  
I stop walking. “You’re drugging him?” I whisper.  
Gannon grabs my elbow and pulls me close. “He wouldn’t have let me prescribe him anything, Lori. I’ve tried in the past. And he desperately needed it, he tried to hang himself last week. He was in torment.” Gannon shakes his head, eyes downcast. “I couldn’t let it continue, or he would have tried again and succeeded. You must see that.”   
“I do. You’re probably right.”  
“I don’t normally drug people without their knowledge, Lori, I promise you that.”  
“Except that other time, when you drugged him outside the fence the night before he got arrested.”  
“Oh. Yes, except that time. Look, I know it’s unethical. But Boone is an extreme case, Lori. He needs urgent help, and he won’t accept it willingly, you know how stubborn he is.”  
“Yeah. You don’t need to explain more, I get it,” I answer.

And I do get it. The doctor faced an impossibly tough choice, and there was no option to abstain. He had to choose. Breach professional ethics and the honestly of friendship by surreptitiously administering mood-altering medication - or stand by and witness Boone’s imminent self-destruction. I can’t blame Gannon for not wanting to see his friend suffer and die. And I would be a hypocrite to criticize him for going outside the bounds of ethics to help Boone, because I did the very same when I blackmailed Arnette Lang.

“I get it,” I say again. “I won’t say anything. Unless he asks. I can lie by omission, but I don’t think I can lie outright to him.”  
“That’s good enough. Thank you, Lori,” Gannon says with visible relief, catching my hand and squeezing it. 

We’re outside a small baker’s shop that usually has excellent bread. It’s closed, which is odd for a Friday at noon. Normally he’d be doing a good lunchtime trade.

Boone notices that we’re not keeping up with him, and turns to give us each a warm smile as we catch up to flank him. I wonder what he’s on, exactly. We could probably all use some of it.

Which reminds me. “Doctor, you said last night that you knew about the Ultra-Stimpak?”  
“Yes. I helped develop it. Phenomenal results in experiments, but the main ingredient is an extract from a plant root that is unfortunately both rare to find and incredibly difficult to cultivate.”  
“What plant?”  
“It’s related to the Xander species, which is a genus of Rhizophoraceae.”  
“I’ve heard of Xander roots.”  
“Yes, but the one used in Ultra-Stimpak composition is a rare cousin of the common type.”  
“What’s it called?”  
“Arcadicaceae.”  
“Heh. You named it after yourself?”  
Gannon colours. “It’s not every day a botanist discovers a new species and then is the first to discover that it has extraordinary medicinal effects,” he says defensively.  
“True. So you consider yourself a botanist, as much as a medic?”  
“More than,” Gannon replies. “I would be quite happy to deal only with plants, and never treat another patient. But doctors are in short supply, and my contract with the NCR stipulates that I divide my time into three-fifths botanical and medicine research and two-fifths treating patients. In other words, my clinical hours are two days a week, currently Mondays and Tuesdays. The rest of the time is a mixture of foraging and test-tubes.”

We arrive at my apartment and go up to the top floor. My door is still lying on the floor, hinges destroyed, and inside there’s a moderate amount of mess, but only what the MPs did. No looting. Not as bad as I had feared. My gramophone is ok, but some of my records are knocked about. One has been crushed by someone’s boot. I reach down and pick up the pieces. Goodbye, _Oggere_ , an Eartha Kitt great. Oh well.  
“Sorry,” Boone says, moving next to me.   
“You didn’t stand on it. Did you?”  
“No. Just know you love those things.”  
Carmen Miranda’s _Disseram Que Eu Voltei Americanizada_ is lying on the floor nearby, out of its fragile paper sleeve. I tenderly pick the disc up by its edges and inspect it, but it looks unscathed. I blow a loose hair off it, pop it on the turntable and lift the needle gently on. The mysterious, beautiful sound of Carmen and her samba band fills the room, and I relax the muscles in my shoulders I didn’t realise I’d been tensing.

“You get changed, we can tidy all this up,” Gannon offers. He and Boone start picking things up and dusting them off.

After a very quick shower, I shrug into my most formal trouser suit. Black, single-breasted with three buttons, three more at the cuffs, cuffed trousers, with pockets though you can’t see them under the jacket. An ensemble elegant but stern. I need people to take me dead seriously today. Especially Colonel Curtis, if I’m unfortunate enough to run into him. No doubt he’ll think I owe him for his clemency.

When I come out, the inside of my apartment is looking normal again, apart from the chair that Boone broke throwing at Vulpes, which would fall over if it wasn’t propped against the wall. 

The gentlemen are out on the balcony, Boone smoking pensively and Gannon sipping a coffee and gazing at the horizon. I get myself a cup and join them. I can see the gate of the military complex, and that nasty little creep Bryant standing next to the guardhouse. From this balcony, Gigi shot her husband. Looking at Bryant, I feel a wave of anger, and for a moment I can easily imagine the pleasure of blowing away someone you have come to loathe.

General Oliver asked me to spy on his wife and report back on her every movement. A strong indication of controlling tendencies. Whilst having affairs himself and sometimes flaunting them, even taking a younger woman to a social event. When Gigi tried the same stunt, he had her beau sent to the front to be killed. Theirs was a toxic relationship, a power struggle, a union of cut-throats, each of whom only wanted each other for promotional purposes.

“Moral of the story, make sure your trophy wife isn’t a trained sniper,” I muse out loud.  
“Or if she is, don’t cheat on her,” answers Boone.  
“Anyone who marries a trophy wife deserves what he gets,” Gannon decrees. “Oh – no offense Boone. Not that Carla was a trophy wife or anything.”  
“She was, a little bit, I’ll admit that,” answers Boone. “But I never cheated on her.”  
“And you were the sniper,” I add.  
For some reason, Gannon cringes and makes a little don’t-say-anything head shake at me.   
Boone stares fixedly into the distance. “Not funny.” His voice comes out like a whisper.  
“She doesn’t know, Craig,” Gannon says quietly.  
Boone nods slightly.

Asking “Know what?” seems like a bad idea, so I say nothing more. Did Boone shoot Carla da Silva by accident? Mistake her for a raider in the distance when she headed home after a day out picking mutfruit? Hard to imagine. If you could see a person well enough to accurately snipe them, you could see them well enough to recognise your own spouse, even if just by the gait. If he shot her by accident, when she was pregnant, that would certainly help to explain why he was so traumatised. A disaster even worse, for him at least, than Bitter Springs.

All I know is it’s none of my business. I’ll let that box stay closed.

“My apologies,” I say, “If I just put my foot in my mouth.”   
Boone looks at me sideways. After a pause he says, in a normal voice, “Forget about it. You ready to go?”  
“Yes. Hospital to see Tomasz, then Gannon goes off and does his thing, and you and me go see Marlene.”  
“Right.”  
“For the Gabriel conversation.”  
“Ugh.”  
“Gabriel.”  
“Is a fucking prick.”  
“And your big bro.”  
“Shut up.”

We head out, and I prop the door against its frame behind us. For whatever good that will do.


	55. The Wonders of Modern Medicine: Pt 2.

You could almost believe it was a normal day, outside on the street. No snipers on rooves, no tight clusters of soldiers patrolling around. Citizens back out, doing whatever they normally do. Gannon, Boone and I walk down the street unmolested. A few people glance at me and at Boone, but no one comments. If anything, they look a bit embarrassed, as though yesterday in the square was a drunken party they’d like to forget.

There’s a strong breeze and a lot of dust in the air, and quite a few of the citizens, and some soldiers, are wearing protective cloths over their faces to keep the dust out of their lungs.

I keep my eye out for Vulpesitas, but there are none to be seen, or if there are, they’re in disguise.

Only a few of the Vulpes posters remain intact, here and there. We pass one in which Vulpes’ eyes have been drawn over with a thick black marker, making them into intense spirals. **You Are Getting Sleepy** is written in a halo around his head. I guess some citizens have kept their sense of humour, despite Gigi, Curtis and the Bugle’s efforts to scare everyone into submission.

Passing the courthouse, half a dozen men and women are already clearing away the rubble with wheelbarrows. I wonder if they will rebuild the court. They have to, really. Gigi and Curtis’ plan to personally decide and sentence every case was unrealistic in the extreme. They had no idea what a time-consuming task it would have been. Pretty soon they would have delegated it, and the people they delegated it to would have been compelled by basic human decency to try to do a good job of it, which would have taken all day, and required their own office, and the opportunity to hear further evidence if they felt unsure. 

To get to Tommy, we have to pass the gate to the military complex. This will be an interesting test of our new immune status; and also of my patience.

I get lucky in both respects. When we arrive, Bryant isn’t on duty anymore, either gone on a break or finished his shift. The other guards let us through with no comment. Gannon and I show our i.d. and state that we’re going to the hospital; Boone just recites his name, rank and file number and they nod him through.

At the medical centre Gannon takes charge. He snags an impossibly young-looking doctor hurrying by, who directs us down a long hall towards an area I’ve never been in before. On either side of the corridor are rooms with people busy in them. In one I see Dr Maneesha Henry tending to an ash-blonde woman soldier who appears to have lost a couple of limbs and taken a lot of shrapnel to the side of her face. The doctor’s eyes meet mine as I pass, so I nod a hello, but she just watches us pass, poker-faced.

I guess it doesn’t do to be associated with me, just yet. Maybe after the metaphorical dust settles.

In the room at the end of the corridor is a curtained-off bed with Tomasz in it. A proper hospital bed, not like the metal cot Boone had been shackled to upstairs. Tommy looks great, he’s awake, reading a book, and his mother is sitting close beside the bed, occupying herself sewing the hem on something bright blue and yellow. She doesn’t look tired at all, but I bet she’s been there all night.

“Tommy,” I say, my face almost splitting in half with happiness at seeing him so well.  
“Lori,” he returns the smile. “Oh, wow. I’m so glad to see you’re alright.”  
“I’m so glad to see _you’re_ alright!”  
“Yeah. Me too. But I am alright, they used a new treatment on me, and it worked great. You can’t see under these,” he pulls the sheet down to show me heavy bandages wrapped around his chest, “but it’s halfway healed already. Like as well as it would normally be after two weeks. Already.”  
“Still painful?”  
“Just a dull ache, no sharp pain. Getting shot was the most painful thing I ever imagined though. Worse, actually. I never imagined anything like that.”  
At that Tomasz’ mother casts soulful eyes at him, and in those eyes I see all the love in a mother’s heart. It makes my own heart hurt.  
“Hello, Mr Boone,” Tommy says.  
Boone replies, “Hey. Glad to see you’re ok, kid.”  
Mrs Borowicz turns to at Gannon. “And you are?” she enquires.  
“Dr Arcade Gannon,” he says in his professional voice, plucking his i.d. from his pocket to show her. “A friend of Mr Boone’s and Ms Treichler’s.” Our civilian titles. Very thoughtful, Dr Gannon.  
“Not one of my son’s doctors then.”  
“No,” answered Gannon. “But I am very interested in his treatment. I helped develop it. I’m excited to see it working so well. And I’m very glad they saw fit to use it on your son. Usually it’s restricted to senior military personnel. I think this is the first time it’s been used on a civilian.”  
“I’m glad too,” agreed Mrs Borowicz. “Perhaps they knew there would be some very big trouble if my son died.”  
“Perhaps… I must say it surprises me though, the supplies are very small,” Gannon muses aloud.  
“You think they should not have used it?” Mrs Borowicz says. I can see she’s on the very cusp of outrage.  
Gannon sees it too. “No no of course they should have, absolutely,” he says in a reassuring tone. “It simply proves that your son is an important person.”  
That does the trick. Tommy’s mother nods. Tommy reaches out and holds her hand, and she relaxes back into her chair again.  
“Did they say when you can go home?” I ask.  
“Yeah, probably in a couple of days. I could almost go now but they’re monitoring me to make sure there’s no bad reaction to the drug, and no infection.”

We talk a minute or two more, me explaining that Boone and I are no longer fugitives, and Tommy expressing how relieved he is to hear that, and asking me if he still has a job now that there’s no courthouse. I tell him that I’m not sure, but that if I have a job, he has one too. He smiles at that; and we take our leave.

Back at the front reception area, Gannon mutters, “How the hell did a civilian get given an Ultra-Stimpak? Even I wouldn’t be given one. You two definitely wouldn’t.”  
“Are you annoyed about it?”  
“No. Not at all, I’m glad he’s ok. I’m just confused. He must be important in some way that we don’t know about.”

I know, though. His importance is to me. I endured Colonel Curtis’ exploring hands, without (much) complaint, to get my assistant that drug. Not to mention the weird interplay of Curtis’ hard-on with my bare foot. An experience which I intend to take with me to my grave, unmentioned.

I beckon Gannon close, and whisper in his ear. “I asked Curtis to do what he could to make sure Tommy lived, and Curtis and Vulpes have some sort of allegiance, I don’t know exactly what, keep it hush-hush. Anyway Curtis knows that Vulpes and I are, um, you know. Something. So it was authorised for use as a favour to Vulpes.”  
Gannon looks a bit dumbfounded at that. His eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. Then he chuckles. “Something. Heh. You’re something, alright.”  
“Don’t go asking questions, ok?”  
“Noted.”

We split up, Gannon going to his research lab, and Boone and I on our way to see Marlene.

☣☣☣

“Still don’t get what someone like you’d be doing with someone like him, Lori,” Boone says as we walk back towards the gate.  
He doesn’t have to say who he means.  
I don’t answer. I don’t get it, exactly, either. It’s instinct, not rationality. On paper, his deeds baldly listed, I wouldn’t want to know him. But in real, vivid life, there’s something else about him - something in his eyes when he looks at me, I don’t know - but he has my heart on a golden watchchain, and he carries it around with him in his pocket, warm and cosy in a nest made of little love notes.

There are recruits in the yard, doing exercises in formation, being yelled at by a staff sergeant. I see the spot where Gilles fell. Suddenly I have a thought.

“Boone, can we just take a quick look over there? It won’t take long. I just want to see the angle Major Gilles was shot from again.”  
Boone looks unenthusiastic, but agrees. Anything to delay having to talk to his mother, I guess.  
We wander over to the place where Gilles had lain. There’s no bloodstain left, but I remember it pretty well. I stand there, and then orient myself in the direction that the cadet had told me she fell in. Across the yard, I am facing the Administration building. Between it and the building next to it is a space a few yards wide, beyond which is the fence, and the now-mended hole that Boone supposedly shot through. But Gigi had confessed to me that she pulled the trigger. From where?

I’m not quite facing the alleyway between the buildings. I’m more directly facing the Admin building. It has wide windows with slatted “Venetian” style blinds in them, on either side of the double doors. Both windows are open. 

I look back at the door behind me, its surface still scarred by the burn mark from the plasma that went through Gilles’ heart. If I put the mark directly behind me, such that a shot would go cleanly through my heart and out the corresponding back of my back, I would have had to be facing - and therefore walking towards - the alleyway, for the shooter-at-the-fence theory to be correct. Why would Gilles have been walking towards an empty space between buildings? Isn’t it more likely that she was walking towards the doors of the Admin building? 

I stare at the Admin building. Between the front doors and the wall bordering the alleyway, is a window. Horizontal bars on it, widely spaced. The view inside protected by the Venetian blinds. I try to picture the angle again. Yes. The shooter could have actually been inside the Admin building, pointing her barrel through the open window, between the slats of the blinds.

“Gigi worked in Admin, right?” I ask Boone.  
“Yeah.”  
“And it was her you saw when you arrived in NCR City and went to change your next-of-kin and army pension beneficiary to your mother, wasn’t it?”  
“Uh huh.”  
“And you implied to Gigi somehow that you were here to kill Gilles.”  
“I didn’t tell her that. She just guessed somehow.”  
“You did ask about Gilles, though.”  
“Yeah.”  
I point. “I think she shot her from that window.”  
Boone looks at the angles. “Could be.”  
“Gigi cleaned out Gilles’ room right after the killing. There could have been a note there, requesting that Gilles come to see her in Admin first thing in the morning.”  
“Could be. We’ll never know now.”  
“Let’s go have a look inside.”

We walk across the yard and go through the double doors. Inside is a small foyer with offices to the left and right. I head to the right. The door is open, and there’s a reception desk inside, staffed by a uniformed, silver-haired woman who looks like she should have retired years ago.  
She watches us approach the desk.  
“Hello,” I say.  
“Hello, Lieutenant Treichler,” she replies. “And Sergeant Boone.” No flies on this lady.  
I look past her to the window. There’s another desk before it. But there’s enough space to crouch down next to it, and take the shot.  
“May I have a look out of that window, please?” I ask, smiling brightly.  
The woman turns to look at the window, then back to me, perplexed. “I’m sorry?”  
“May I come around the desk, and have a look out of that window? I want to see if something is visible from there.”  
“What?”  
“It’s part of an investigation. But I’ll tell you if I see it.”  
The woman thinks a moment. Then she says, “You armed?”  
“No.” I show her the inside of my suit jacket, and pat myself down for show.  
“How about him?”  
“Boone, are you armed?”  
“Nope.”  
I pat him down too, for good measure. Not armed, but his muscles are rocks. He wouldn’t need a gun to be lethal.  
She makes a decision. “You can come around. He stays there.” She lifts up a hinged part of the reception desk and lets me walk through.

I adjust the blinds so there are gaps between each slat, then crouch in the spot a shooter might, and peer through the bottom corner of the open window. I can see the place where Brenda Gilles fell. And dead centre behind it is the burn on the door.   
“Is there usually only one person working in this office?” I ask, straightening up.   
“Supposed to be two. We’re understaffed at the moment,” the woman replies. “Well, I say ‘at the moment’. But ‘for the past year’ would be more accurate. All the offices are. Just about everyone who can be is put on active duty and sent to the front. They brought me out of retirement to work in here again, and the other shift is covered by the General’s wife herself, although she didn’t come in this morning.”

That piece of news isn’t in general circulation yet, then.

“The General’s wife, gosh, it must be fun working with her,” I say, testing the waters.  
The lady looks at me appraisingly. “You trying to get me to say if you wore it better?”  
“Oh god, no.”  
“I know that stuff they printed in the paper about you isn’t true,” she continues. “Not all of it, at least. I lost a son in that flu outbreak. It wasn’t your fault. None of us knew how bad it was till too late. The Bugle is full of nonsense these days, I don’t know.”  
“Oh. Thank you, ma’am. And I’m very sorry to hear it. Uh, about Mrs Oliver, was she working the Monday before last? The 23rd?”  
“She would have been, she works Mondays, Tuesdays, and Friday mornings. I work Wednesdays, Thursdays and Friday afternoons. But I had to come in early today, because she didn’t show up. Not that that’s unusual lately. In fact with her fancy new rank, I doubt she’ll be working here anymore.”  
“I doubt that too.”  
“Terrible thing, what happened to the General.”  
“Indeed.”  
“Shot from your balcony, they say.”  
“Supposedly. It would have been a good vantage point, that much is true.”  
“But you didn’t take the shot.” She eyes me narrowly.  
“Of course not, I liked the General.” Well, slight exaggeration there. “And I couldn’t have anyway, that shot was 300 yards, it had to be a trained sniper,” I add.  
Her eyes move to Boone.  
“Wasn’t me,” he says. “But it probably was someone who used to be in 1st Recon.”  
The narrow eyes get even narrower.  
“How did Gigi come to work?” I ask, to change the topic. “Was she usually escorted by her husband, or the Colonel, or..?”  
“She just came by herself. She didn’t have to be escorted. And if it was a dust storm or heatwave or anything, she could use her private access.”   
“Private access?”   
“Yes, not many people know but there’s a tunnel that joins up the General’s house, this building, the courthouse and the prison. Very old. Mrs Oliver told me never to go in, she said it was full of mole rats and giant ants. But she still used it, sometimes.”  
“Where’s the entry?”  
“In a store closet back there.” She points at an unobtrusive door in the back of the room with SUPPLY stencilled on it.

I think I’ve got everything I need. “Thank you,” I tell the woman, and turn to go. Boone opens the door and holds it for me.   
“You wore it better, lieutenant!” the woman calls. “Don’t tell her I said that, mind!”  
I walk through the door and Boone follows me out.

“Gigi Oliver knew you were in town, knew about Bitter Springs, and wanted Gilles dead for her own reasons. So she left a message for Gilles to come see her at dawn, took the tunnel to work early, and shot Gilles from the window of Admin as she crossed the yard. Then went and tidied up Gilles quarters, as though it were a normal admin task, getting rid of whatever evidence there might have been. Then she framed you,” I say to Boone as we head away, trying it out by saying it aloud. It fits.  
“Yeah. And she wanted Gilles dead because Gilles knew about Gigi and Curtis and was blackmailing them,” Boone contributes.  
“I’m not sure about that part.”  
“That’s what Gigi told us.”  
“I think she was lying. Gilles was having an affair.”  
“With Curtis? And Gigi was jealous?”  
“Not Curtis. With Lee Oliver.”  
At that, Boone’s jaw drops slightly. 

We walk on, both thinking it through. After a while Boone says, “Caught trying to steal the crown from Mrs O. That’d be a capital offence, alright.”  
“Major Gilles had a certain bull-headed bravado, right?”  
“She was never scared to make a wrong decision, put it that way.”


	56. Psst! Your neurodynes are showing.

Vulpes walked down the road, dressed in NCR desert gear, including helmet, tinted goggles and a convenient facewrap, justifiably raised against the dust in the air. 

He watched Treichler and Boone walk on the other side of the road, 50 yards diagonally in front of him. 

Boone walked a little too close to Lori. His knuckles sometimes brushed the back of her hand. Boone’s manner was noticeable. He cleared the way for her, and stared down anyone who looked at her. Vulpes felt his hackles rise at each tiny gesture. Boone wanted to possess her, that was clear. The most obvious sign had been yesterday morning. Arriving at Lori’s door before dawn, mumbling that he couldn’t sleep and was ‘just walking around’. The man had been on the verge of declaring himself. Then, on Vulpes appearing naked in Lori’s bedroom doorway, the ex-soldier had gone berserk.

Vulpes had once greatly enjoyed making other men envy him, but that seemed a young man’s game, now. He was not happy about Lori and Boone together, without the company of Dr Gannon; and he was very curious to see where they were going. They seemed to be heading towards the outskirts of town. Yet they couldn’t be leaving. Neither carried a pack, and Lori wore business clothes. A sharp black suit, made from some precious fabric that draped immaculately from her straight shoulders. She looked as though the dust wasn’t even bothering her. She looked sleek, beautiful, and dangerous. But city-dangerous - not wasteland.

Boone was trying it on with her. Vulpes watched the taller man glance at Lori more often than he needed to. They weren’t even talking, but still he glanced. He knew she wouldn’t fall for his lack of charms, but it was irritating nonetheless.

They stopped outside 22 Westin Road, spoke for a few moments, then went up to the door. Boone produced a key from under a flowerpot, unlocked the door and they walked inside.

Vulpes cut across the road fast, went directly into the garden of number 22, and around the side of the house, using a small shed there to stand close behind and not be visible from the road or the side windows of the house. He dropped his pack on the ground, and peeked out, looking into the house windows. 

Boone and Lori were in one window. The room was a kitchen, and there was someone else in there too, he couldn’t see who. Just an elbow, doing something at the bench. Then Boone and Lori went into a different room, at the back of the house. Vulpes moved further back into the garden to get a view. There were a few scrubby bushes he could fade behind, grateful now for the dust swirling in the air and the camouflage granted by his borrowed gear.

Lori stood with her back to the window. Boone was deeper in the room, leaning against a small desk, talking to her.

It was a bedroom. Boone’s childhood bedroom, Vulpes guessed, by the decorations. This must be the Boone parents’ house. 

Lori slipped her jacket off, and shook her hair out. Boone’s chest visibly rose and fell. Vulpes’ blood rose. He decided it was time to intervene. 

The back door wasn’t even locked. Vulpes stepped silently inside, and moved towards the room he’d seen them in. The door was open. He listened for a moment, just outside the doorway. Lori was speaking in a gentle, soothing voice. _Come on Craig, just do it. It won’t be as bad as all that, and I’m here to help if you need me._

Vulpes’ head cocked to one side. He hadn’t known what he expected, but it wasn’t this line of conversation. Just do what? He stepped into the room, and casually took off his helmet, and slipped the goggles and facewrap down, while Lori and Boone started and Lori pressed a hand to her chest as though holding back a fright. 

“Hello,” Vulpes said. “I see you have a poster of me on your wall, Boone. Didn’t know you were a fan. Would you like me to sign it?” He waved a hand at one of the smaller anti-Legion posters, which depicted himself eleven years younger, hidden behind black goggles and dogskin headgear.   
“That’s not you,” Boone breathed.  
“It is, actually.”  
The horror of realising he had a poster of Vulpes Inculta on his bedroom wall - worse, one which read “You are his bitch!” - hit Boone hard. He tore the poster down and crushed it furiously into a tight ball.

“Craig? Lori?” an elderly female voice came from the hallway behind Vulpes. “I brought coffee and cookies. Who’s this?”

Vulpes didn’t turn around. He recognised the voice. He’d heard it yesterday, in the square. And, maybe, nearly thirty years before that, in his own childhood bedroom.

Lori stepped forward, saying “Let me take that,” took the tray laden with cups and cookies from the woman with the voice, and set it down carefully on the desk. Boone said nothing, his face frozen.

“Marlene, this is Vulpes,” Lori said, ushering the woman in, and holding her by the arm, in case she dropped. Vulpes himself felt like dropping. This woman was his mother, there was no doubt now he saw her close, heard her name, and heard her normal voice, not screaming as she had yesterday. And she was in Boone’s parents’ house. Making coffee and cookies. She lived here. It was impossible. She couldn’t be. She could not be Boone’s mother.  
“Vulpes, this is Marlene Boone,” said Lori, sounding completely normal. “Craig’s mother.”

The way Lori was looking at him, she knew. She had found out, somehow. Vulpes looked at Boone. He was staring at the floor, cringing. But not surprised. He knew, too.

Finally he looked at Marlene Boone. Gave her a hard, blank stare. Daring her to say anything.  
Marlene trembled, and tears wobbled in her eyes.  
“You are not Vulpes. You are Gabriel Dengler. My son with my first husband,” she whispered.   
Vulpes said nothing, just stared at her. She had meant nothing to him for many decades now. She should stop pretending that he meant anything to her either.  
Marlene started crying under his cold gaze. “I’m so sorry, Gabriel,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry you got taken, and I’m sorry I never found you.”  
“Taken?” Vulpes said, voice dripping with contempt. “I was never taken. I chose to leave. I left a drunken, vicious animal of a man and a weak, spineless dishrag of a woman.”   
Boone bristled. “Watch your mouth,” he warned in a low tone.  
Marlene Boone held a hand to her mouth, eyes distraught. She gulped air between sobs.  
“Let’s be civil,” Lori said firmly, looking at Vulpes, and comforting Marlene with an arm around her shoulders.  
“I don’t see why I should. I speak the truth. This woman and her husband were my carers. But their ‘care’ drove me to join a slave army at the very bottom of its ranks. Because at least in the Legion we were flogged for a reason.”  
“Don’t you fucking dare talk to my ma like that,” Boone threatened.  
“No. He’s right. And I regret every minute!” cried Marlene. “My head was full of polluted neurodynes. I couldn’t see the right path. I’m so sorry, Gabriel. I’m so sorry. But I’m on the path to alignment now. I see so clearly!”  
“Ok. Let’s all sit down, and drink some of this coffee,” Lori said, in the soothing voice again. “Come on. Let’s go into the living room. Boone, could you bring the coffee, please?” She led Marlene by one hand, and grabbed Vulpes’s arm by the other. He sidestepped free of her grasp at once, but followed her to the living room, keeping an eye on Boone behind him. 

Lori sat Marlene down on a sofa, sat next to her and indicated for Boone to sit at Marlene’s other side. Boone put down the tray of refreshments on a coffee table and complied. Vulpes was impressed at her skill at handling the situation. Perhaps mediating between warring parties was something she did as part of her work. He himself did not sit down where indicated, but stood near the door, within their view but able to leave when he wanted. Which would be soon, as this scene was getting tiresome.

It took him a moment to notice that the room was full of cult propaganda. There was a large framed poster of something called “The Great Wheel” on the wall. At first glance it seemed to be rolling along black grass. Then he saw that the little blades were not grass, but hordes of tiny people. 

Oddest of all, there were two bobbleheads named Vicki and Juan in pride of place on the sideboard. 

The feeling in the room was one of unprecedented discomfiture. No one touched the coffee or cookies.

Marlene wiped her eyes and tried to compose herself. “I’m truly sorry for everything that happened, my Gabriel,” she started again. “My heart bursts to see you alive now. Losing you hurt me so much. I never knew where you were, all these years. If you were dead, or if you needed me.”  
“How could I have needed you?” Vulpes sneered. Lori caught his eye, and he gazed back at her. This wasn’t making him look good in front of her, but he couldn’t stand Marlene’s whimpering. If she felt so bad about it, she should have done something about it back when she had the power to do so, instead of waiting for her young son to save himself.

“I understand why you’re angry with me,” Marlene said in a faltering voice. “You were a very difficult child. Your father was a harsh man. He was a Suppressor, but I couldn’t see that until after he died. After that, I understood why you clashed with him, your heart was so strong, he couldn’t corrupt you. But I don’t understand why you vanished. All these years, I thought you were taken. I was so worried. Why didn’t you leave word?”  
“Because I didn’t care what you thought.” And I still don’t, Vulpes thought. The woman had clearly lost what few marbles she may once have had. Which, in retrospect, might explain a few things. Perhaps she had been demented back then. As a child, it is impossible to see how aberrant your parents are – only distance and years give that insight.  
She looked at him with pleading eyes. “You’re still my son. I still love you.”  
Vulpes scoffed. “I am no one’s son. But I have been a parent. I did not thrash my children, I did not allow anyone else to, and I never let them take the blame for anything that was my fault.”  
Marlene gasped, “You have children? I have grandchildren?”  
Vulpes’ mouth became a hard line. He would not tell her anything about them. She was not entitled to know. Being in a room with his mother was starting to bring up emotions he hadn’t felt in a long time, had forgotten he had, and didn’t like. He was saying things he didn’t want to say, in front of people he didn’t want to expose any rawness to. He needed to get out.

“Where are your children, Vulpes?” Lori asked softly.  
He looked at her, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he said to Marlene, “There is nothing more to say. I am alive, that question is now answered for you, but I want nothing more to do with you.” He turned to walk out, then looked back at Boone. “You are not my brother.”  
Boone’s voice was a low growl full of murderous intent. “Back at ya.”  
Vulpes walked out, the way he had come.

Behind him, he heard Lori say, “Well. That went worse than expected.”

Vulpes collected his pack from next to the garden shed and walked away, unhurriedly, practised at looking relaxed irrespective of how he felt. It would not do to draw attention to himself with jerky movements or a too-fast pace. As he left the property some young soldiers were walking down the centre of the road, heading in towards town, arguing animatedly amongst themselves. They looked at him without interest, then went back to their discussion of which was a better rifle, the M16A1 or the AK47. A foolish argument, Vulpes thought, as the AK47 was the far superior field weapon for practical reasons of reliability, and availability of ammunition. Only green soldiers who had never fought in the Wasteland would root for the M16A1. The bubble, again.

Then he felt pleased. Two minutes away from the experience of re-encountering his mother and he had already started to forget about it.

He stopped thinking about mothers or AK47s and thought about Lori, instead. Had she understood his message? Would she be there, tonight?


	57. The Scent of a Vulpesita

Through Marlene’s front-room window, I watch Vulpes leave. I want to run after him, but it’s impossible because there are soldiers outside, walking down the street. They walk right past Vulpes, oblivious to him. It’s amazing the way he can blend into the scenery like a lamppost when he wants to, yet be such a knockout at other times, like when he met me at the Shh! bar that first time. He turned every head in the room that night.

He strolls away, through the swirling dust, adjusting his facewrap up to meet his goggles, and walking like a man without a care in the world – not consistent with the way he expressed himself before he left. That was the closest I’ve seen him to emotional. Even chained up in the square like yao guai he didn’t look all that upset. But confronting Marlene must have been a kick to the guts.

As it was to Marlene. Behind me, she sobs quietly, Boone next to her on the sofa, murmuring comforting things to her. Or at least trying to – “He’s nothing,” and “He’s dead to you now ma, forget about him,” probably aren’t what she wants to hear. To her, Vulpes will never be nothing. He will be the source of endless regret, endless “if only”s.   
I should know.

Boone looks pained, his brow a topographical map of lines. Years of worry, sadness, anger, all there in stark relief. The drugs Arcade is slipping him can’t mask this type of pain. It hurts a good man to see his mother cry. Which makes me think, not for the first time, that Vulpes is not a good man. But then, he doesn’t seem to view Marlene as his mother. He said it himself. _I am no one’s son._ Perhaps he is, though. Perhaps, without realising it, he is his cruel father’s son.

Boone and Marlene don’t need me, so I touch Boone’s shoulder and say softly that I’m going to head to my office. Will you be ok here? I ask. He nods. I squeeze his shoulder and leave.

It’s a relief to get outside. I walk back down Westin Road, holding a handkerchief to my face to avoid breathing the worsening dust, ignoring the occasional quizzical stare from passers by who recognise me. 

Dusty’s Cantina is open, so I stop off to get some lunch. It’s mid afternoon and the rush has gone, only two other tables are occupied.   
“Glad to see you back in action, Ms Tricky,” says Lou, serving me a small pottery bowl of brahmin stew. “Some strange shit afoot in this town lately, no lie.”  
I answer with a momentary widening of the eyes, and take my bowl to the table furthest away from the others. Fingers crossed Colonel Creepy Curtis doesn’t decide to drop in for a snack. He would probably come and slobber all over me, oblivious to my distaste, and then my stew would end up all over his head. And it would be a shame to get banned from Dusty’s.

I finish my meal mercifully unmolested, and head to the office. 

“Vulpesitas RISE!” is spray painted on the front window in tall, spiky letters done in bright pink and scarlet paint with white highlights. Quite artfully, I must admit, but it’ll have to go.

Inside, everything is the same. No one has broken in or rifled through my files. It’s peaceful, and if Tommy was here, it would feel like any other day.

I pick up my phone and call the city maintenance crew, booking someone to fix the front door of my apartment, and another to clean the paint off my office window. That task done, I make a coffee, and settle at my desk, reacquainting myself with my current casefiles.

Nate Miller is still sitting in jail, waiting for something to happen. He was the guy who stole plastic explosives to sell, for money to give his sister to live on so she could exist without having to prostitute herself to feed a severe drug habit. A messy situation, with no easy solutions. 

It’s easy for those of us not addicted to drugs to say, simple, just stop taking them. We confidently imagine we could do that ourselves, and hell, if we were lucky we might even be able to, because we have good health and non-drug-using friends and decent places to live and no unspeakable childhood memories to try to suppress.

Nate’s sister is somewhere in the city, and now she doesn’t have her brother for support. If she went to the city authorities for help she would be arrested and briefly incarcerated herself, because prostitution and unauthorised chem-use are both illegal. She would go through withdrawal in a jail cell, and get “clean”, that being the word commonly used because drug use is considered a morality problem, not a health problem. But being clean wouldn’t solve any of her underlying problems, and once she was released her chances of staying off the chems would be minimal at best. Unless other things changed in her life.

I make a note in my diary to visit Nate first thing tomorrow at the prison. My plan is to continue as normal, as though the justice system still functions, and the courthouse will be rebuilt. 

Thinking about that, I call Kevin McGill.   
“Tricky! Where are you?”  
“At my office. Why, where’d you think I am?” In prison, calling for his services, I bet. He wishes.  
“Oh, very good! Good to hear your voice. How can I help?”  
We discuss the courthouse, and I tell him about Gigi and Curtis’ plan to fire the judiciary, abolish fair trials and handle all matters of justice including criminal sentencing themselves. Kevin listens, and sounds increasingly shocked as I talk.   
“I don’t think they realise how much of their time that would take up,” he says.  
“I don’t think they intended to do a good job of it, Kevin. Anyway, now that Gigi’s been shot, I wouldn’t be surprised if Curtis gives up that plan, at least for the time being,” I answer. “And I think the best idea would be if we and everyone else carry on as normal, support the judges, and help to organise a rebuild of the courthouse.”  
Kevin agrees, and we ring off.

I’m just thinking how it’s funny that McGill and I have almost become friends lately, when there’s a loud knock at the door. Not my personal office door, but the building door, which I’d been careful to bolt from the inside. 

I peek through the corner of window, and see a lone soldier standing there. He doesn’t look like he’s on a mission to apprehend me, so I go through the short hallway and unbolt the door, to find him already walking away.  
“Yes?” I say. Not too loudly, as I don’t know if I really want him to hear me.  
He turns. “Miss Lori?” he takes a step toward me. “Can I talk with you? Uh, please?”  
I open the door for him to step in, and take him through to my office. He sits in my client chair and looks around nervously. I get the feeling he’s about to make a confession.

“What’s your name?” I ask.  
“Nitin Roshan, Special Response Fireteam,” he responds automatically.  
“What can I do for you, Mr Roshan?”  
He pauses and takes a breath before speaking. “First of all, I’m glad you’ve been freed, it didn’t seem right, what was happening yesterday.”  
I nod, and wait for him to continue.  
“Yesterday,” he says again, “when you were in the square, I was in the guard. A group of girls attacked us and removed one of the prisoners.”  
“Mm. Go on.”  
“Apparently these girls are a gang called Vulpesitas.”  
“Yes.”  
“Do you know where I can find them?”  
“No.”  
“You got their sign on your window.”  
“Not my doing.”  
“I don’t want to hurt them, or arrest them or anything like that,” he says earnestly, leaning forward. “I just want to find them. One of them.”  
“Which one, and why?”  
He pauses again. “It’s personal.”

I stare at him for a while. Anyone would say he’s a fine-looking guy. Majestic bone structure, long sultry eyelashes. I don’t say anything, just wait for him to continue.  
“Please, Miss Lori. I think you know who they are,” he says.  
“I don’t know where they’re holed up, and even if I did, I couldn’t reveal it to you. They do seem to drop by me sometimes though. Perhaps you could tell me what it is you want with them. And which one.”  
“The pink-haired one,” he says. “She jumped on me. ’Round the back of the platform. She landed right on my face. And she didn’t have any panties on. I was flat on my back and she just-” he makes a circular gesture at his face. “And I was hooked. I thought about her ever since.” He shakes his head. “I can’t stop thinking about her. It was amazing. I never met anyone like her. I gotta see her again.”

I can’t help smiling inside at his describing their encounter as having “met”.  
“The pink-haired one, you say?”   
“Yeah, well, bleached hair, but with kind of pale pink strips in it.”  
I think back, but I don’t remember her. Most if not all of them had bleached hair. The whole event was such a rush of confusion that my memories of it are equally jumbled up.  
“I don’t know, sorry,” I tell him. “But if I see her, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”  
“Don’t scare her off, though. Just tell her… I don’t know. Tell her I’d like to take her for a drink.”  
“That’s kind of a cheesy line, Nitin,” I smile.  
He grins sheepishly. “Tell her I’d like to get to know her. Privately, security guaranteed. No one’ll know.”  
“Sure thing. If I run across her, I’ll tell her you’d fully appreciate another face-moistening.”  
“Don’t tell her that!  
“I’m kidding.”  
“This is embarrassing, you know.”  
“Don’t worry. My clients have told me far more embarrassing things over the years.”  
He stands to shake my hand, and I walk him out.

Ah, young romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support readers - and btw, check out Queenminx's knock-out Instagram page @vulpesitas.rise


	58. An eye for a thumb

A phone call to the Military Admin office confirms that the three awol kids that General Oliver promised me he would pardon have indeed been freed from prison. Must have been one of the last things he did before being assassinated by the Gigi-Curtis dynamic duo. I spend another hour getting up to date with my paperwork, concluding that there’s nothing urgent I need to attend to. 

I get out Vulpes’ file and look through it one more time, forcing myself to examine the photos from the internment camp. In the light of what Dr Henry told me happened there, they are all the more horrifying. I stare at “K. Simpson”, trying to make out her features. Mid brown hair, straight, tied back. Ordinary shaped face. Ordinary figure. A completely ordinary looking human being. Committing extraordinary acts of barbarity.

A man in overalls comes and scrapes the graffiti off my window. I make a fresh pot of hot black coffee and take him a cup along with a sugar cookie, glad to have a break from pondering Vulpes’ grim history.

I want to prosecute K. Simpson for war crimes. The fact that her victim was himself a war criminal doesn’t change the fact that she committed grievous acts of physical and sexual torture. There’s ample photographic evidence of the former, and Dr Henry is a credible witness to the latter. There is no defence to the charge, other than mistaken identity, which isn’t an option here. K. Simpson would be toast, on the facts. But she wouldn’t be convicted, the same way Dr Henry’s formal complaints went nowhere. The case would be thrown out on its first day.

Plus there’s another problem, which is that even if miraculously the trial eventuated, the humiliation to Vulpes would be excruciating. It’s been kept under wraps, and very few people know about it. Right now, he doesn’t even know that I know. A trial would change all that. His private nightmare would become the public’s, to gossip and joke about, endlessly. Normally rape victims are given anonymity, as otherwise rapes would barely ever be reported, for these very reasons. But as a criminal himself, he wouldn’t be afforded that comfort.

I’m packing up to leave the office when a thought strikes me. I don’t have to prosecute Simpson at all. I just have to make her _think_ that I will. All I have to do, to effect some little justice for her victim, is to let her know that what she did is known, that there is evidence floating around, and that she is vulnerable to answering for it.

I sit back down and draft a writ, announcing that she is being put under investigation for war crimes, listing them, and summoning her to attend the Law Offices of Lt. L. Triechler to give her statement.

The list reads:   
1\. Cruel and inhuman treatment of POWs  
2\. Torture and wilfully causing great suffering and serious injury to body  
3\. Committing sexual violence, in particular rape  
Notes -  
Range of penalties on conviction of war crimes under NCR criminal statute: Execution by firing squad.   
Factors taken into consideration in mitigation: N/A.

Now my problem is only finding out who and where K. Simpson is, so I can address it to her. I pick up the phone again and call Military Admin.   
“Administration office, Mary Tull speaking,” a creaky voice answers. I recognise the voice, it’s the silver-haired lady I met there earlier today.  
“Good afternoon Mary, it’s Lori Treichler, we met this morning,” I say.  
“Oh, hello Lieutenant. You’re lucky you caught me, I’m just closing up. Am I going to be dealing directly with you from now on? What happened to that nice young man?”  
“If you mean my assistant Tomasz, he’s in the hospital at present,” I answer. “He took a stray bullet.”  
“Oh, goodness!”  
“But he’s doing well. Mary, I have an investigation underway in which I believe there was a serving soldier witness, and I need her contact details.”  
“Do you mean the investigation of Major Gilles?”  
“No, a separate one. I’m afraid it’s a sensitive matter and highly classified, so unfortunately I’m restrained from giving details.”  
“Oh?”  
“Female soldier, badge name of K. Simpson. I need her full name, rank, number and contact address. She served in the NCR internment camp a little way over on the Arizona side of Hoover Dam, late ’81, maybe early ’82.”  
“That won’t take long,” Mary says cheerfully. “We keep good records here. Nothing gets missed.”  
“I know, Tomasz has often mentioned that your office is very efficient. Thank you, Mary. Can you call me back when you find it, please?” I ask.  
“I can find it right now if you stay on the line,” Mary says. I hear a metal file cabinet drawer being drawn open, and the flicking of files. “Salvatore… Selby… Simpson, A… Simpson, F;” she murmurs to herself. “Simpson, K. No, that’s Kristopher. Simpson, K.L. Here we go. Sergeant second class, Kirstie Lynn.”  
I take the details, thank Mary again and hang up. Kirstie Lynn is apparently still serving, now under Colonel Hsu, which means she marched out a couple of weeks ago and won’t be back for another five months or so. That’s no problem. Once cold, a nice big dish of revenge doesn’t get any colder.

I add all Kirstie Lynn’s details to my writ, type up duplicate copies, file one and tuck the other in one of my fancy envelopes with “The Law Offices of Lt. L Treichler” printed on it, lock up the office and head home, casually dropping the letter-bomb in a postbox along the way.

Tit-for-tat. Not something I usually indulge in, as it often only serves to make a bad situation worse. But so satisfying, all the same.

When I get home, my door is fixed. 

I check around, in case a handsome white-haired man might be lounging somewhere inside, but I’m alone.

At the gramophone, I put on _Old Devil Moon_ while I go wash my hands and get changed.   
_You and your glance make this romance too hot to handle_  
 _Stars in the sky blazing their light can’t hold a candle_  
 _To your razzle-dazzle!_

Where is that old devil, my Mr Razzle-dazzle? I thought he would be here. Strangely, my apartment feels empty without him. 

It’s no good sitting on the balcony tonight with this much dust in the air, I’m not hungry, and now I’m home I realise I’m exhausted. So I decide to just brush my teeth and go to bed. 

The last thing I do before climbing into bed is put on one more song, to wind down with.  
 _I got it bad, and that ain’t good_.  
Sleep takes me before the song even finishes.

☣☣☣

I wake up the next morning after a long, deep sleep, and my brain must have processed something because I instinctively know where he is.

And somehow, overnight I formed a decision, one which yesterday I would not have predicted likely, but which now feels perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter. Sorry for the long wait.


	59. That bubble-bursting prick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vulpes & Lori's themesong in this story is _Oh Love_ by Ane Brun.

SATURDAY  
7:41 a.m., Saturday May 5th, 2283

I dress for hiking, empty the last few things my refrigerator contains into a rucksack and switch the power off. Then I lock the door and head out into the hazy sunshine.

My office is as I left it. Nothing else needs to be done, so I write a letter to Tomasz thanking him from my heart for his service and loyalty, and giving the sole charge of the law practice to him. I write that I would be pleased if he would continue as my replacement, and that I believe he would be excellent in the role. I add that he is free to withdraw from practice at any time he wishes, and if so, to simply leave the office locked up.

I leave the note in an envelope marked to Tomasz, propped up against a paperweight in the centre of my desk. Then I take one last look around the room, pat my beautiful old desk as though it were a good dog, and quit the premises.

Walking down the street I get more of those curious stares from citizens. I see someone who used to be a friend, in my previous life as a respectable citizen, wife, and – briefly – mother, and he starts to wave an instinctive greeting, then changes his mind, and then changes it again, and before he has decided what to do I am past him, murmuring a polite “Good morning” to him in my wake, without looking back.

The city guards ignore me as I leave the gates of the city. I walk out, towards the hill, just as I do every weekend. 

The morning sun is already warm and I’m glad for my wide brimmed hat and long cotton sleeves. When I reach the lookout point near the top of the hill, I’m sweating lightly. 

There’s no one here. 

It looks just as it always does, a barren shelf of smooth rock, slightly overhung with another shelf of rock behind it, the true pinnacle a hundred or so yards above but impossible to ascend to without pulling yourself up by hands alone, which serious arm-strength years of desk-work has caused me to lack.

I sit in the shade and look down at the city, shimmering through the hot dusty air. As I stare at it, sorting through my mixed emotions, a figure drops quietly next to me from the rocks above, landing in an easy crouch. Pale blue eyes regard me with sparkling interest.

“I expected you yesterday,” he says. He moves close to me, and eyes my rucksack.  
“Sorry about that. It took me a while to apprehend the meaning of your message.”  
Vulpes says nothing. We gaze at each other, he smiling in a foxy sort of way, me more in a sheepish sort of way.  
“It’s funny,” I observe after a while. “What with everything that’s happened, I would be feeling quite depressed, were it not for your existence in my life giving me something to look forward to. Yet if it wasn’t for you, none of that would have happened.”  
Vulpes still says nothing, just smiles wider at me.  
“You were the prick that burst my bubble,” I muse.  
Vulpes’ smile spreads into a grin. 

“Are you ready to go?” he asks, indicating my rucksack.  
“Vulpes, NCR City, for its many faults, is my home,” I state. “I cannot leave it.”  
“That’s a shame.” He opens the bag up and peeks inside.  
“But I could, maybe, take a little holiday. For a year, or two, perhaps.”  
The foxy smile. “You will find there are many other places to live.”  
“But not ones that contain an apartment with hot running water and my record collection in them.”  
“You will get used to cold water, and we can send for your collection.”  
“Send? Do people actually ‘send’ for things?”  
Vulpes shrugs. “There are people who will perform any task if you pay them adequately.”  
“Hm. I can just imagine the records arriving promptly, in millions of tiny jagged black pieces.”  
“Perhaps it is best to leave them where they are. What’s in the bag?” he enquires, poking around in it without waiting to be invited. He pulls out two packets of pills. “What are these?”  
“The blue ones are water purification tablets, and the white ones are these very powerful painkillers Dr Gannon gave me after I dislocated my shoulder. Might come in handy at some point, I dunno.”  
Vulpes looks through the rest of my stuff, shaking his head at the small pocketknife I packed. “You didn’t bring a weapon?” he asks.  
“No. I don’t own any, and even if I did, I have no experience using them.”  
He unfolds the 2.5-inch knife and curls his lip at it. “You will have to learn. The wasteland is more dangerous than this.”  
“I can’t kill a person, Vulpes. It’s not in me.”  
“It’s not people you have to worry about. I’ll take care of people. It’s the other species.”  
“Like radscorpions, giant ants, golden geckos and molerats?”  
“Like deathclaws, centaurs, wanamingos and floaters.”  
“What’s a floater?”  
“Mutant creature. The most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Believe me, Lori, when you see one of those bearing down on you, and sooner or later you will, you are going to want a gun, the bigger the better. I have something you can use.”

He stands up and then jumps high to grab a handhold on the rocky outcrop above, pulling himself up and swinging his legs to disappear up onto the upper ledge. I’m amazed at the ease with which he lifts his bodyweight using only seven and a half fingers. I don’t think I could raise myself more than an inch using all ten.

I hear silence for a few minutes, then he drops his rucksack down, and jumps down after it, with a gun strapped to his back that I can only describe as spectacular.

“My god, what is that monster gun?” I ask. It’s long, like a sniper rifle, with a military grade sight mounted along the barrel, but it’s much bulkier, like a machine gun. It looks like death.  
“It’s called a Bozar. It uses .223 FMJ ammunition, as does this, which will be your gun,” he says, handing me a large pistol.  
I heft it. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to use this,” I admit. Though only a pistol, it feels very heavy to me.  
“You will get strong enough.”  
“Does it have a cool name, like the Bozar?”  
“No. It’s just a .223 pistol. But it is very effective, when maintained well and used correctly.”  
“Are you sure you shouldn’t keep it? You could probably make better use of it than I.” I try to hand it back to him.

He doesn’t take it. “I will find another one for myself. In the meantime, get used to handling it.”  
I suck air through my teeth, and blow it onto my clenched hand, a habit when I’m anxious. “I really don’t want to.”  
“Lori, you will be relying on me to keep you alive, and I will do so. The corollary of that is that I must rely on you likewise. How are you going to do that if you refuse to handle a gun?”  
“Couldn’t you be the gun-guy for both of us?”  
“What if I am injured and I need you to protect yourself?”  
“I’ll take the hit.”  
He shakes his head. “Don’t be a fool.”  
I suck more air.  
Vulpes speaks more gently. “So you don’t care to protect your own life. What if I need you to protect me? Will you let me die rather than pick up a gun?”  
“No,” I say quickly. Of that, I’m sure.  
His eyes gaze intently at me, and I blow on my fist until eventually I admit the sense of his words. “Alright. I’ll learn how to use it.”  
“And you will carry it, and maintain it.”  
“Alright.”

He packs my things carefully away again, and puts a small cache of ammunition in my rucksack at the top.

Since we’re having an argument, and therefore have that sense of intimacy that sometimes comes with arguments, I decide now’s as good a time as any to ask the question that has been on my mind since yesterday’s altercation at Marlene Boone’s place.  
“Vulpes, where are your children?”  
“Nowhere.”  
“What do you.. Oh.”  
He nods.  
“How many did you have?”  
“Five. Although there were never more than three alive at any one time.”  
“What happened to them?” It’s a rough question, I know. But he seems calm talking about it. So far.  
“Let’s go,” Vulpes says.

We shoulder our bags, and climb down the hill, on the far side, away from the city. Not ten minutes later, we are further away from the city than I have ever been before. I feel all tingly. 

We go cross country, following small tracks, eschewing the main paths. I have no idea where we are going; but I don’t care. Just like this morning, it feels perfect. 

There’s no other sound but our footsteps. After walking for a couple of hours, Vulpes starts to talk. His voice is quiet but stoic.  
“My first child was murdered shortly after birth, along with her mother, by the centurion her mother was married to. My second child was a son named Alexander, who lived to the age of 17. The third and fourth were boy and girl twins who drowned in a flooded river, also with their mother. They were five years old. The fifth died of fever when she was an infant.”

It’s hard to know what to say. We walk on for a while.  
Eventually, I ask, “How many mothers were there?”  
“Alexander and the twins had the same mother.”  
“Did you and Alexander get along well?”  
A pause. “Usually.”  
“What happened when he was 17?”  
“He was burned to death by an airstrike at the second battle of Hoover Dam.”  
I stop walking, my hand over my mouth.  
Vulpes turns back to face me. His face is passive, but there is a sadness, deep in his eyes. It’s always been there, I realise. I thought it was a kind of jaded world-weariness. Now I understand it for what it is.  
Breathing out slowly, I say, “No wonder you wanted revenge.”  
A mirthless twitch of his lips. “I wanted to destroy every one and every thing. Until recently.”  
“You feel better, now that time has passed?” I say it hopefully. If he can recover from such misery then maybe in time, I can feel better too.  
“No. Not at all, if I let myself think about it. Each one still hurts like a fresh wound. Like they happened yesterday.” 

Well, scrub that.

Vulpes comes close and takes my hand, squeezing it. “I have lost interest in revenge, Lori. I see now that it’s a pointless use of my time.” 

I stare at him, taking in his scrawny undernourished frame, sunbaked, battle-scarred and burned by explosives, his missing fingers and teeth, his lined, careworn face. He is a relic of so much hurt and damage, both dealt and received.

We let a silence fall, still standing there in the middle of nowhere. Vulpes plays with my hand, turning it over and tracing the lines. Presently he lifts it and kisses the palm. “You have helped me, Lori.” He raises his eyes to mine. Irrespective of the damage to his body, his eyes are full of life, glittering and deep. “Perhaps you will allow me to help you in return.”  
“What do you mean?” I ask.  
“Was the story in the newspaper true?” he asks. I don’t have to ask which one he means. _“Child Killer”_.  
“More or less, in facts if not in tone.”  
“Tell it to me in your own words,” Vulpes requests, pulling me forwards to resume our trek.

We pick our way through the stones and ancient debris. Vulpes keeps alert, always watching the terrain, periodically scanning in all directions. So far, no floater attacks. No nothing in fact. Apart from crows, and parched-white bones of indeterminable age or species crunching under our feet, the Wasteland seems bereft of fauna. Deserving of its name.

Vulpes has told me his private tragedy of loss, and it would not now be right for me to decline to relate mine, but I don’t know if I can do so without bursting into tears. Which I very much don’t want to do. I let some more minutes pass, and try to steady my heart. Vulpes lets me take my time, scanning the land, occasionally glancing at me, but holding his silence. 

“It also happened around two years ago, coincidentally,” I eventually begin. “There was an outbreak of influenza, which arrived with soldiers returning from the northern front. It was immediately quarantined and contained, and the civilian population was safe, but it took hold in the prison, spread quickly amongst prisoners, and mutated almost overnight from a bad strain into a lethal one. The morbidity rate was dreadful, something like 95%. I think only a very few people survived it. No one except staff were allowed in or out of the prison without extreme precautions, special suits, masks, and hose-downs, until the epidemic passed.”

I take a deep breath. This is the hard bit. “Except me. I had this very vulnerable client, a kid on a murder charge who was in solitary confinement. The disease hadn’t reached the isolation cells, and I was worried about him down there, so I talked my way in past the guards to see him. No mask, no precautions, I guess because they knew me, and I can smooth-talk anyone. Or maybe they just didn’t care too much about me. Anyway, they brought him up to the conference room, which no one had been in since the outbreak started, and it seemed safe enough. I met with him, made sure he was ok, which he wasn’t really, gave him legal advice and left. Went home, unaware that I had somehow picked up the bug somewhere from a surface.”

I try to swallow the growing lump in my throat. “Was kissed by my husband as I entered the house.” 

Breathe, Lori. “Went and washed my hands, with soap, carefully as I could. Picked up my baby, fed her.”

I can’t keep telling the story. A long pause ensues, broken only by the sound of our steps and a mangy crow squawking somewhere ahead of us. It flutters away as we approach.

“Your husband died,” Vulpes says.  
“Yes. The next night.”  
“And your baby.”  
“My daughter…” I swallow again, but the damn lump won’t go down, “died one day later.”

 

After a time, Vulpes muses, “From what you say, you took great care. Perhaps your husband caught it somewhere else.”  
“I don’t think so. It was contained.”  
“It arrived in the city uncontained. What did your husband do for a living?”  
“He was a printer and signwriter. He printed the _Bugle_. He painted the sign on my office.”  
“Was he a loving husband?”  
I think about that. “Well.. some of the time. He wasn’t that warm as a person, but neither am I, so we suited each other in that way.”  
“I disagree. I find you very warm.”  
I quickly glance at him to see if he’s joking, but Vulpes’ face is sincere and pensive.

He takes my hand to help me over a dry ditch. There’s a picked-clean gecko skeleton in the ditch, surrounded by loose scales, shining in the sun.

We walk on. “Try this,” Vulpes suggests after a while. “Your husband was having an affair. He was involved with a soldier, and reunited with her when she arrived back from the northern front. He caught the disease from her, and passed it to your daughter. You should be very angry with him.”

This alternative explanation is so preposterous it actually makes me laugh. A tear I had been suppressing escapes the corner of my eye.  
“Well, thank you, for trying to cheer me up.”  
“I’m serious. He caught the disease first, after all. You didn’t succumb to it, or did you?”  
“No.”  
“And you saw no one in the prison who was infected, and even so you washed your hands carefully after the visit. Therefore it must have come from him, not you. He betrayed you, and it led to his own death and that of his child. He was not a good husband. You are well rid of him.”  
“Ha ha, ok. I’ll pretend to believe that.”  
“Why not believe it? It’s possible,” Vulpes says, jumping up on a burnt-out car and surveying the horizon.  
I look up at him, squinting in the bright sunlight. “Do you believe things with minimal evidence, just because the idea makes you feel better?”  
“Yes,” Vulpes says, surprising me. He jumps down, and pulls me close to him. Rough hands frame my face and his good thumb wipes away the errant tear track. His eyes are earnest now, searching mine. “I believe that you love me. Even though you have never said so, and I have confessed on more than one occasion that I will always love you.”  
“Always? How can you know you always will?” I ask. My mind rushes into a tangle of relentless logic. Who believes in forever? No one but those who are naïve or lying – and he’s definitely not naïve, so he has to be lying – and he must also think that I’m naïve – and he couldn’t love someone whom he thinks a fool. Therefore he loves me as a puppy, or doesn’t love me at all.

Vulpes interrupts my thoughts. “I know it, Lori.”  
“How?”  
“Because I still love everyone I’ve ever loved.”

☣☣☣

In the desert, west of NCR City, a large hill sits, at odds with the flatness of the surrounding landscape. Near the top of the hill there is a lookout, over the city. Above that, very few people go, as the climb is difficult. At the very pinnacle, invisible to all below it, there stands a mininuke launcher, secured by heavy rocks, loaded and precisely calibrated to destroy the centre of NCR City. Should it ever be fired, the radiation would render the city unliveable. 

In the far distance, two dots are a man and a woman, walking away. 

Fate, and fate alone, will decide who, if anyone, should find the device; and if so, whether they will fire it, dismantle it, or leave it in place for fate to resume its role.

The man whistles as he walks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took nearly six years, but I finally finished it. May I never take that long to write something again.  
> Thank you, regular readers, for keeping me company on the trip :)


End file.
